Winds of Change
by Samuel La Flame
Summary: Harad has forever been a dark country and never more so than now, in 1905 TA, with the influence of Sauron, known as the Lord of Gifts, spreading quickly. But opposing him are two wizards cloaked in blue, a warrior of the West and a woman who has survived despite all odds. Together, they may be enough to hold back the darkness and let Harad experience a dawn.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien! I borrowed the term 'krigsherre' from A Diamond in the Rough. **

* * *

><p><em>"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened"<em>

-Priests of the Hidden Temple

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Pallando, now known as Rómestámo, one of the Blue Wizards, servant of the Vala Oromë, stared into the fierce winds that were raging outside of the palace. The winds were fierce enough to pluck weapons from the hands of their wielders- not that any weapon of mortal make could do anything against this threat.

Outside, raged the greatest sandstorm in twenty-one years, and the closest one ever to the palace. It was a sign of the high skill of those who had built the palace that it was still safe because advancing upon it was a solid wall of sand that could strip a man to the bone and bury him. It was as if the sky and earth were screaming their anger.

Inside, the krigsherre was in the most solid room of the palace, praying desperately to the Lord of Gifts. Already, over a dozen Haradrim had been sacrificed and as the bell tolled mournfully once more Pallando knew that another had just died. What an awful, barbaric custom, to make human sacrifices in the hopes of controlling the natural world.

Beside him, hand clenched hard on the hilt of his scimitar, was Alatar, known nowadays as Morinehtar. Alatar was tall, far over 6ft but not quite 7, and he had tanned skin- proof of the many hours he spent outside. Among the Istari, he looked the youngest, and though his hair had stands of silver it was still a dark brown, nearly black. His beard was short but full and his body was muscled. He was a warrior, skilled in the use of many weapons.

"He is mad", Alatar screamed above the rising winds of the ever-approaching storm. "You cannot placate or control a storm by killing people! Winds and sand do not care about sacrifice! Besides, if their Lord of Gifts was capable of controlling the elements like this then they would have conquered Gondor, Rohan and all the Free lands years ago!"

Pallando said nothing in return for there was nothing to say, he agreed with all that had been said but he could do nothing. Laying a hand on Alatar's wrist, he tried to calm him. "You cannot kill him, Alatar", he warned. "It is not our place and would destroy any good we have the hopes of achieving here".  
>With a low curse in Quenya, the scimitar was released and Alatar clenched his teeth.<p>

"What do we do then, Pallando? For I cannot stand here and do nothing!" Out of the two, Alatar was also the one more prone to impulsive action. He could often not stand to watch the innocent suffer.

"We must call for aid", said Pallando wearily, expecting the protests that were sure to follow.

"We cannot", retorted Alatar as expected, "none of the others will have sought aid! Are we less capable then they? Curumo will not have called upon the Valar!"

"I am not Curumo, now known as Saruman the White, and neither are you", snapped Pallando, stress, fear and annoyance making his usually mellow temper flare. "We are the Ithryn Luin and we were granted less power than the others", he said honestly. "Besides, our mission was very different than theirs!"

"But I would not have us fail in our mission. Our powers are divided, but individually superior. Surely, we can complete our duty just as well as they", said Alatar desperately for he had picked up many human traits in his years travelling through their lands, among them pride. He did not want to seem weak, nor did he wish to disappoint Oromë, his Lord, whom both he and Pallando revered.

"The others are not trying to fight Sauron in lands that he has already conquered! The others are not staying in a palace where their lives are threatened every day as they try to limit his influence! The others do not have to put up with a mad king who commits atrocities nearly every day yet who they must allow to live despite not wanting to!

"We cannot resist this darkness alone, Alatar. Here in the South Sauron is particularly strong and we must do anything necessary to diminish his power- including call for aid. Especially now, when our greatest and most powerful ally has been missing for weeks."

At the last argument, Alatar bowed his head in a gesture of respect and sorrow. "Very well", he said. "We shall call for aid." Truly, he knew that they needed it.

They were in a country that had already been taken by the Enemy and where the ruler supported Sauron. They must not be banished or sent away by the ruler, known here as the krigsherre, but they also needed to resist the Deceiver. It was a dangerous game that they played, one which they had played now for twenty-one years. Soon, they would have to return to the East which was rising once more but before then they had more work in the South.

At first, they had been reviled and rejected for they were in a country that loathed foreigners. But, through layers of carefully placed deceptions and seemingly helpful advice, they had finally managed to gain the respect if not trust of the krigsherre.

Alatar, using his fighting skills, had quickly proved to be a warrior without equal- at least among the mortal warriors of the South who, frankly, usually died before they could fully develop their skill. Pallando was gifted in wisdom and counsels- and if he was less wise and learned than either Olórin or Curumo than that did not matter here in the South. Here, Pallando was by far the most learned man.

The bell tolled again and Pallando closed his eyes in sorrow while Alatar felt his own blaze with fury. Over a dozen men killed to satisfy the fear, pride and desperation of one man who Alatar furiously wished was dead himself. Why was it that the one man he wished to kill was the very same one he was forbidden to?

Why did so much rest upon this man living? True, he was a ruler, but here in Harad's court rulers and nobles were killed all the time by either poison, duels or assassins in the night. Alatar would be happy to kill the man himself if it came to it, by any one of those methods or even a combination of two or more! But, as he had been warned countless times, too much depended on this man and Pallando had said that a sign from Oromë had strongly advised that they let him live. He was strongly regretting having agreed to do so!

At the next toll of the bell, Alatar fell to his knees at the palace window. "Enough", he screamed, his voice filled with pain, and fear, and anger, and a sudden note of command. It did not matter that he was commanding a storm and that such a thing was clearly impossible, it did not matter that he had no authority over the winds and sand.

He was tired of death, he was tired of standing aside and he could not allow anyone else to die because of the tyranny of this ruler. He cast aside his scimitar and knelt, flinging his spirit wide open and feeling the Light rise within him as he cast away his disguises and was revealed in his glory.

He knew that his power in the Unseen world was now shining through in the Seen one almost as if through a veil. He knew also that this was completely unadvisable and Pallando was likely going to murder him later and that this would certainly attract the gaze of Sauron. But, at the moment, he did not care. He could not allow another to die.

"Eru Ilúvatar, all-father who created all that was and will be, hear now the prayers of your humble servant, I beg thee", he said with his eyes closed, reaching out his spirit with all his strength. "Tame the storm and call it back, still the sands and let them lie. I ask this not for myself but for the innocents who are dying because of this storm. Save them, my lord, I beg you, for such a thing is beyond my power. We are in your hands, my father, now and forever".

When he opened his eyes Pallando was looking at him in a mix of anger, amusement and exasperation, the anger clearly because he had done something so impossibly rash and potentially dangerous. The amusement because he had acted for good reason and because Pallando found it reassuring that he had such confidence in Ilúvatar. The exasperation because such impulsive action was typical of him when he was stressed and angry. But then, before Pallando could say a word, the desert changed.

It began in the West, a gentle wind that should have been merely a part of the coming storm but was instead totally distinct, bringing with it cool air, the faint scent of the sea and the gentlest echoes of music, beautiful but just out of earshot.

It blew towards the storm you could see the difference, the way that it parted the wall of sand, pushing it away from the palace. But no, pushing wasn't exactly right, more as if it were guiding it. Slowly at first, then increasingly faster, the storm turned around, now moving away from the palace.  
>The roar of the wind was fading, the flying sand disappearing over the horizon. What had seconds ago been a churning wall of sand, merely a few hundred meters from the palace, was now a shadow in the distance, getter further every second.<p>

The wind died, the desert calmed and now the scene from the window was very different. Beneath them was only calm sand and the empty desert, a light, warm breeze drifting across the sands. Pallando stared at him in amazement as he bowed his head once more, still on his knees.

"Thank you, Father", he said, the words coming to his lips smoothly but feeling strange. How long had it been since he had asked the aid of his Father? He took it as a sign. Ask for help and it shall be given, call for aid and you shall be granted it. He needed to set aside his pride for they needed aid.

Standing, he retrieved his scimitar and turned to Pallando. For a second, he said nothing for he had no clue what to say. _I'm sorry, I know that was wrong but I do not regret it? Finally, I have some hope for the first time in months? I am overjoyed to hear from Father? Do you forgive me?_

All this he thought but none of this did he say. Instead, he said only one thing, "Pallando", and could not say any more. But it did not matter for Pallando understood.

"That was unwise", Pallando said quietly, "but I do not judge you for it as it was far more wise than charging in and killing the krigsherre which I sensed both of us longed to but neither of us dared. If revealing yourself and your Light attracted the gaze of Sauron then so be it, it was bound to happen eventually and our activities could not have stayed secret for long.

"There is little that the Enemy can do now to hinder us and, frankly, I doubt that he will bother right away. He never had much respect for the Blue Wizards after all and it will be plain to him that while that was your Light, it was not your power. He has, after all, never been a fool and it was evidently beyond our combined power to control the elements. This will likely inspire the Enemy's curiosity but he, no doubt, will have far more important things with which to occupy his time and attention.

"To command the storm was prideful, as was to resist summoning help but I shall not lecture you on that for you humbled yourself before Eru and that can take great courage. Your impulsiveness needs restraining, as always, but you do improve and such is merely your character. Besides, these instincts are prompted by a need to protect others and act for what you believe to be the good of the world. There are far worse faults to be found in a person, including the inability to act- which you surely do not possess! If Our Father forgives you your pride and impulsive tendencies than who am I to not do so as well?

"We both forgot that never are we alone in our mission. It was your belief tonight that reminded me that we are not expected to accomplish everything alone. I wanted to call for aid but I harboured little hope that it would come. Now, I know that we shall be granted the aid we need.

"Though perhaps the Haradrim will attribute this miracle to the sacrifice we know what truly stopped the storm. We cannot tell them, of course, but maybe the families of those slain will be comforted by the thoughts that their loved ones did not die in vain. If nothing else, it has proven once again that the krigsherre is not afraid to sacrifice others to fulfil his own needs. That may help us garner support in the future.

"You have done well, Alatar, and you need not seek my forgiveness nor that of anyone else save Father who, it seems, has already granted you his. Be at ease, mellon nin ar muindor nin", he finished.

"Thank you", Alatar replied quietly, gratitude clear in his voice. "What must we do now", he questioned after a few seconds, regaining his usual gruffer tones.

"Now", said Pallando reluctantly, "we must go pay our thanks to the mighty krigsherre whose wise and courageous sacrifices caught the attention of the all-powerful Lord of Gifts and convinced him to save us all from the sandstorm".

"May I hint that next time perhaps the Lord of Gifts might enjoy a royal sacrifice and suggest that there could be nothing more fitting than should the krigsherre give his life in sacrifice for the Lord of Gifts so that his people may go free", Alatar asked.

"You may not", replied Pallando as he retrieved his staff and hurriedly adjusted his robes, though his mouth twitched at the suggestion and the thoughts of the krigsherre's likely reaction to it. Unfortunately, they could not, their work was far too important to be wasted by angering the krigsherre, amusing as it would be.

Staff in hand, robes fully presentable, Pallando turned to Alatar who was, reluctantly, concealing his scimitar and taking his staff. His robes were quickly made presentable and his hair was drawn back from his face and fastened with a leather band.

"Are you prepared, brother", Pallando asked, his voice already the calm, patient and reassuring tone he used with the krigsherre, his true emotions hidden deep below the surface.

"Prepared to go humble myself before a tyrant and tell him how well he did today in killing his own subjects", Alatar asked rhetorically and somewhat bitterly. "By all means, brother", he added before Pallando could say anything in response.

"Then let us go preform this necessary duty", Pallando said, sweeping away from the window, robes billowing around him and his staff tapping the ground ahead. Alatar paused a second to gather his resolve then stepped out after him, his scimitar slapping rhythmically against his thigh in a way that was comforting and his long, smooth strides ensuring that he caught up to Pallando quickly.

As they made their way down the halls towards the lower chambers, servants bowed low and guards either nodded in respect or regarded them with suspicion. Pallando greeted each with a nod or a smile but Alatar kept his face blank. Half of the guards would prefer to be viewing his unmoving corpse than his confidant stride so he saw no reason to be friendly with them.

Before the doors of the inner chamber two guards stood at attention, clearly terrified that they would be the next to be summoned for sacrifice. Evidently those that dwelt within did not yet know that the sandstorm had abated. Pallando felt satisfaction well up within him. Here at the krigsherre's court it was always far better to be the bearer of good news. To be the bearer of ill news could cost you your life.

"Let us pass", Pallando said peacefully, and the guards looked at them warily, unsure why they were here. "We have been saved, my friends", he added. "The sandstorm has been vanquished."

Almost in synchrony, the guards breathed out in relief and, smiling slightly, the one closest to the door opened it. Pallando did not blame them for their relief, now they no longer needed to fear that they would be sacrificed.

"Praise the Lord of Gifts", the second guard said with a worshipful look upon his face. "Indeed", Pallando managed while Alatar grunted. They must keep up the pretences but there were, after all, limits.

They swept into the hall where, by the altar, a terrified woman was being forced to kneel , a priest pressing a gleaming blade to her throat as the krigsherre desperately recited, "this offering I make to you, my Lord of Gifts, the blood of one of those I rule, as you rule over me. May her spilt blood please you and grant you the strength to vanquish the storm".

The priest made to move, the woman opened her mouth to scream, but before either of them could do anything Pallando's voice burst forth before he even had made up his mind to speak.

"Stop", he ordered in ringing tones, briefly forgetting their job to appear completely powerless and prepared to serve the krigsherre.

But the tone of command was clear in his voice and the priest froze, suddenly unsure whether to obey the krigsherre or this unknown voice that exuded power and command. For a second, the priest felt as if he were pinned beneath the gaze of a hunter, unable to move and certainly unable to even think of disobeying.

Then, the feeling disappeared as quickly as it came and the priest was left staring only at the two foreigners who had, against all odds, managed to gain the respect of the krigsherre. Yet, against all sense of reason, the priest was not sure who to obey.

Then the krigsherre stood, both fury and fear upon his face. "What is the meaning of this", he shouted. "How dare you order my priests in my palace! I know you dislike death, my advisor, but surely even you must see that this is necessary! These sacrifices are for our mighty Lord of Gifts, that he might notice us and save us from the sandstorm".

Instantly, Pallando knelt, Alatar reluctantly following suit as they presented their necks to the krigsherre in an act that was no longer merely symbolic. The krigsherre gestured impatiently and they raised their heads though they stayed on their knees. It was far safer to do so.

"O mighty krigsherre, wise beyond belief and with courage most men could only aspire to possess, we come bearing urgent tidings", Pallando began in the flowery speech of Harad. It was far better that he talk for Alatar usually did so through clenched teeth and seemed unable to come up with proper praises for the krigsherre.

At the ruler's impatient nod, Pallando went on. "As usual, you are victorious, my lord! Even the Lord of Gifts must see your worth for outside a miracle has occurred!"

Pallando paused to heighten the krigsherre's interest and to ensure that the priest still was not moving to sacrifice the woman. Suddenly far more relaxed, the krigsherre gestured for him to keep speaking and relay the news.

"The sandstorm that had been threatening the palace and all those within it- including your most royal self- has disappeared, my lord. It has seemingly vanished into thin air. Let all assembled view the power of our krigsherre", Pallando said, the words tasting bitter in his mouth but knowing he must say them.

Cheers and the banging of weapons rang out, praise for the krigsherre who he accepted graciously. Alatar resisted the urge to spit. He deserved none of it!

"It was because I know how much you value your subjects, o my merciful lord, and because I know that the Lord of Gifts values his loyal servants, that I insolently tried to order your priest. Am I forgiven for that offence", Pallando asked, face clear and tone apologetic.

But while outwardly he portrayed himself as the perfect servant of the krigsherre inwardly he stewed with anger. The krigsherre deserved neither his respect nor praise and that he must give him such rankled him. Working here in the South certainly taught one humility!

"Yes, you are forgiven", the krigsherre said somewhat distractedly before giving orders for the woman to be released and all to celebrate. Pallando breathed a sigh of relief.

Hours later, in their room within the palace, Pallando and Alatar stood together before their private altar which had been altered so that it was no longer dedicated to the Lord of Gifts but instead to Ilúvatar and the Valar.

Taking up their staffs and joining their power, together they called for help, hoping the Valar would answer them. Instead, the Valar chose to send someone…

* * *

><p><strong><span>Translations and definitions<span>**

_Ainur: _First and most powerful beings created by Ilúvatar. There are two divisions, the Valar and the Maiar

_Curumo_: Saruman's name in the West

_Eru Ilúvatar: _Called the all-father or the One, He is the supreme deity of Middle-Earth and the creator. Only He can create independent life. Anything not created by Him must be accepted by Him to become more than mere puppets

_Istari_: Also known as the Five Wizards, they are Maiar spirits sent in human form to help the Free Peoples defeat Sauron

_Ithryn Luin_: the Blue Wizards

_Maiar: _They are one of the orders of the Ainur but lesser in power than the Valar. They serve the Valar

_mellon nin ar muindor nin:_ my friend and my brother

_Morinehtar_: Alatar's name in Harad and the other lands of Middle-Earth. It means Darkness-slayer

_Olórin_: Gandalf's name in the West

_Oromë_: One of the Valar, he is Lord of the Forests and a great hunter

_Rómestámo_: Pallando's name in Harad and the other lands of Middle-Earth. It means East-helper

_Sauron_: The Lord of Gifts,The Enemy,The Deceiver, The Dark Lord, the Shadow

_Unseen world: _Also called the Wraith world and the Spirit world. This is the world that the Ring reveals to its wearer and that the Elves and Ainur can see. The Ringwraiths are creatures of this world

_Vala/Valar_: They are the Powers of Arda who shaped and rule the world from Aman. They were created by Ilúvatar and are the most powerful of the Ainur. The Maiar serve them.

* * *

><p><strong>This is my newest story and my longest. It is going to be quite long but hopefully I will be able to update at least once or twice a week. Hope you enjoyed! The quote at the beginning is Matthew 7:7-8. Please review and tell me what you liked, disliked, ect. Thanks for reading! <strong>


	2. Chapter 1: The Summoning

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien! I borrowed the name _Rávaníra _from Queen Apolline.**

* * *

><p><em>"Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker"<em>

-Old Rhyme

_"Duty, first, last, and always"_

_-_Nemyria, Warrior Queen and Sheik

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

It was a quiet and peaceful night when Glorfindel of Gondolin was summoned before the Valar. He was not summoned in body, but in spirit. He was dreaming, a rather pleasant dream he later remembered, when his fëa was called by the Aratar. One did not resist or ignore such a summoning.

Manwë himself greeted him from his seat on his throne and beside him, on each of their thrones, sat the others of the Aratar, the eight most powerful of the Valar. Stern and proud, yet also kind and wise, they watched him as his spiritual body entered the throne room.

He was understandably nervous though he tried not to show it. He knelt in the centre of the room, directly between the thrones of Manwë and Varda. He waited a few seconds, one knee bent and head bowed, before deciding to speak.

"My lords and ladies", he said as respectfully as possible. "For what reason have you summoned me", he asked, head still bowed. He hoped that it had nothing to do with their decision to let him return to Middle-Earth. He had been accomplishing the task that they had set him to the best of his abilities. He had been there since the Second Age, trying to assist the Free Peoples in their fight against Sauron. Unfortunately, it now seemed that the power of the Dark Lord was growing again in the East and South. He hoped they didn't regret letting him return.

"Patience, Glorfindel of Gondolin", said Ulmo, King of the Sea. "We await another", he added. Lovely, Glorfindel thought wryly. Please, do not bother telling me more than that. He wondered who would have the… recklessness required to make the Valar await them.

"Whom do we await, my Lord", Glorfindel dared to ask. The lips of Varda Elentári, the most fair, lifted into a smile. Her face radiated the light of Eru Himself and her beauty was beyond words. Glorfindel felt blessed to see her smile. He knew that most would do anything for that smile.

"Can you not guess", she asked, the faintest hint of a laugh trailing in her voice. At those words, Glorfindel said nothing, though he could indeed guess. There was only one whom could have the audacity to have the Valar wait for them and then have the Star-Kindler react like that.

"Be at ease", said Nienna quietly, so Glorfindel stood up and met the gaze of Manwë whose eyes were upon him. Under that gaze, he was unable to fully relax. These were eyes that regarded him with a cold, removable expression. The eyes held warmth and comfort but they were strange eyes, foreign eyes. They were eyes that had seen far more than him, they were eyes that understood the will of Eru Ilúvatar, both the good and the bad. In his eyes, he could see pain, and suffering but also love, a love beyond that even of the elves. He was afraid to keep looking but unable to look away. So he met and held the gaze of Manwë Súlimo, King of the Valar.

Then, from further in this dreamworld, came the sound of footsteps. Light and unhurried, they were approaching steadily and suddenly the great doors of the hall burst open and a young woman strode in. She was dressed in the pure white robes of a Vala with a leather belt fastened to her hips. A circlet of mithril sat upon her brow and hanging from it was a deep blue jewel. Hanging from the leather belt at her side, was a sword.

Glorfindel stared at her then drank in her familiar and comforting form with relief. She was short, with long, lean legs and a muscled build, seemingly not an ounce of fat on her. She had a slender, boyish frame with narrow hips and broad shoulders and a small chest. Her muscles were lean but defined and they rippled as she walked, demonstrating her strength, and grace, and power.

She had an ease of movement that many would admire. Each step was perfectly balanced and perfectly silent and her walk was almost a glide. It was the walk of a hunter and a warrior and a predator. He knew well that she was all three of those things.

Her skin was pale and flawless and drawn tightly over the face, being thin instead of pudgy. Her face itself was roughly heart shaped with broad cheeks, high cheekbones and a stubborn chin. Her nose was small but looked as if it had been broken and forehead was high with a mouth that curved mischievously.

Her hair fanned out behind her as she walked, unbound beneath her circlet and flowing in waves of deep, flaming red. Several protested this colour that to them represented the House of Fëanor. She stubbornly refused to change it, stating that she liked it. Her eyes were a mix of blue, grey and green though Glorfindel knew that they changed. Currently, they were darting around, taking everything in before finally settling in him. She smirked.

She halted before the Aratar before bowing respectfully then sat down lazily upon her throne, yet looking every inch a queen. "Adar. Naneth. Forgive my lateness, I was unavoidably detained. For what have you called me", she asked.

"To bear witness, daughter. You are, after all, one of the Valar and you know that I respect your counsel", said Lord Manwë. She nodded then turned to me.

"How is Rivendell, Fin", she asked. "How fares Ada", she added. There was a wealth of longing in her tone when she spoke that word, _Ada_.

"Rivendell is fine, far safer than the realm in which you currently abide, and Lord Elrond is well, my Lady. All miss your presence but understand that you must help Eryn Galen for it is sorely in need of your strength", Glorfindel replied.

He felt reassured of her presence. He knew her well and was friends with her, having fought beside her several times. Out of all the Valar, she was the most involved in Middle-Earth, rarely abiding in Aman. She alone of the Valar still involved herself in the conflicts of Arda. Because of this, she rarely drew upon her powers as a Vala, instead becoming an elf, or man, or another. She had many names and was known by many of the people of Middle-Earth. She was known as Aeliniel, Soraya, Erelyn, Kallin… but her friends knew her true name. _Rávaníra._

"Not only in Eryn Galen do I dwell currently", she said with a sigh. "I am also assisting the dwarves of Erebor who dwell currently in the Blue Mountains. I have grown particularly close to Thorin Oakenshield, the heir", she replied.

Glorfindel choked on a laugh, "but he loathes elves, particularly the elves of Mirkwood", he protested, unable to believe that she was splitting her time between helping two people who hated each other. "I know", she grumbled. "But he trusts me and so long as I am not overtly open with my status as sometimes an elf he does not protest".

"And Thranduil", Glorfindel asked, wishing desperately that he could have seen the expression on the face of the King of Eryn Galen (known often now as Taur-e-Ndaedelos, or, in the common tongue, Mirkwood) when Rávaníra told him that she would have to leave as she was also in the middle of helping _dwarves_. "He is stubborn", she said pointedly, "he and Thorin are identical in that".

Glorfindel kept his face straight with difficulty as he imagined what Thranduil would say to being compared to a dwarf. Particularly Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thráin, Son of Thrór. Ironically, it would likely mirror the face of Thorin should he learn that he had been compared to an elf. Particularly Thranduil Oropherion, King of Eryn Galen.

Manwë spoke then, commanding his attention (and the attention of everyone else in the room) with ease. "You are here, Glorfindel of Gondolin, for we are entrusting you with a new task."

Glorfindel grew nervous at that. Was he failing at the task they had previously set or was he being given a new one because they needed to send him on a different and likely far more dangerous new one?

"Alatar and Pallando need more help in the South so we are sending you", said Oromë seriously, fingering his bow and looking somewhat worried. Glorfindel understood at once how important this was. Oromë cared greatly for his servants and they had been set an important task.

The Blue Wizards, Maiar of the Vala Oromë, had been sent to the East to weaken the forces of Sauron. If they needed help then things did not bode well. Why they were in the South instead of the East was another mystery but Glorfindel decided not to question it. Both the South and the East were being taken by Sauron, after all.

"Seek the krigsherre's halls for you will find Pallando there", said Varda, looking serious. Glorfindel felt like sighing. The krigsherre's halls were in the heart of Harad and no elf nor man of the West had ever reached it and returned alive. But, naturally, that was where he was being sent.

"Do all that you can to help, until the new hope is born", added Yavanna. That made it sound as if he would survive which was good. What was less good was the fact that this was, of course, assuming that all went well and that everything passed in accordance with the will of Eru. In Arda marred such a thing came to pass only rarely.

"That day, you will be driven out and you must leave and return to Imladris no matter how difficult it is. It will be the most painful thing you have ever done but you must do this to fulfil the will of Eru Ilúvatar", said Mandos impassively.

Glorfindel felt fear race down his spine at that thought. Why would returning to Imladris be so painful? It would, naturally, be Mandos who delivered that doom. He was not heartless but the pain of beings such as elves affected him very little.

Glorfindel still remembered the torments that he had experienced before being released. The Halls of Mandos was where you waited after death until you had served your sentence and could be reborn. Mandos was not cruel but just and Glorfindel had deserved every second that he had spent in the Halls (thankfully very few). However, he could not help but fear Mandos more than any of the others of the Valar.

"Afterwards the burden that you shall bear will rest upon the shoulders of another", said Aulë finally. That was when Glorfindel realized exactly how long and hard his duty was to be. It would likely be years before he saw the peace of Rivendell once more.

"If this is your will then I will see it done", promised Glorfindel, bowing once more to the Aratar. "I will depart for Harad tomorrow", he said. If this was the will of the West then he would see it fulfilled or die trying. Long ago he had learned that resisting or disobeying the Valar lead to death, fear and sorrow.

He still remembered the Helcaraxë and its bitter cold and infinite darkness- though even that experience had not been as terrible as some of the horrors he had found upon Middle-Earth. During the Crossing the pain he saw and felt had been mostly his own. Other times, all too often, the pain was that of innocents who should not have known such suffering. The pain of others was harder to bear for physical pain faded but the others' suffering remained in his mind to plague him.

"Nay", said Varda gently in answer to his departure plans. "We shall send you tonight. When you awake from this vision, you shall wake upon the sands of the South. From there, you shall begin your journey to the krigsherre's palace."

Glorfindel saw that his path had been set. "Very well, my lords and ladies", he said, though really he would have preferred to make his own way. He prepared himself mentally to wake to the harsh heat of Harad, then stopped when Rávaníra spoke.

"Trust in yourself, Fin, and trust in your heart. We will speak again soon", she said. But before he could ask her what he meant Manwë spoke. "Bring forth the gift", he said.

Aulë descended from his throne and approached, bearing with him an unsheathed sword. It was long and gently curved, like several elven swords were. The blade was sharpened and shining mithril; the hilt was also mithril, wrapped in warm leather for the grip, and the pommel of the sword was a carved golden lion- though how they had welded the mithril to make it golden and with what they had welded it Glorfindel did not know. Glorfindel gaped at it.

"It is called Quicksilver, for now", said Rávaníra, and the rogue was being quite obvious about her amusement at his amazement. Glorfindel swallowed at the memories such a name invoked, "the dagger of Ecthelion", he reminded her. "Shall soon be renamed", was Rávaníra's lightning fast reply. She had an answer for everything, he marvelled.

"What is it for", Glorfindel asked cautiously, hardly daring to hope that it might be his. It was by far the most beautiful sword he had ever seen. "It is our gift to you to assist you on your quest", replied Aulë. "It was forged here by Aulë himself", added Manwë. Impossible though that sounded, Glorfindel did not doubt that it could be true.

Aulë extended the sword to him and slowly he took it. Never since he had slayed the Balrog had he found a sword that fit him perfectly. There had been many that were close and he was now well accustomed to adjusting but every warrior longed for a blade that felt right in their hands. Taking this sword Glorfindel felt something that he had not felt in centuries, as if finally the weapon he held and his arm were one. Stepping backwards, he tried a few strikes, it was perfectly balanced. The blade seemed almost to sing. Looking closer, he saw that engraved upon the blade were some runes in Quenya. _'Parn thys si pas os aelor'_, he read. Dawn from dark of evil.

"Thank you, my lords and ladies", replied Glorfindel to Aulë, awed by the gift he was being given. "I shall use it well", he promised solemnly.

"You shall not keep it forever", Rávaníra warned. "This sword has a great destiny that has already been foretold. Use it well for as long as you have it. This sword has memory written into it and it will carry a message across time and space. You shall know what to do when the time comes". He truly hoped he would because at the moment her words were a jumble of gibberish which made no sense. But experience had taught him that it was useless to tell her such a thing.

Looking at him urgently, she added, "When the time comes, invoke my name and seek the blessing. You shall be granted it". Then, before he could ask what she meant, the Valar disappeared and with them his dream.

He awoke, as promised, on top of scorching hot sand. He would have to remind himself to thank her for her polite dismissal that gave him the chance to ask any final clarifications or advice the next time he saw her. Standing, he brushed the sand off him and looked around. Scattered in the sand beside him lay his new sword, his old scabbard, a bow and a quiver of arrows. A pack of provisions lay in front of him but he doubted that they would last longer than a week. He had been given two full waterskins and lembas.

With a sigh, he sheathed his sword and and buckled it then shouldered his bow and quiver. It was time to make for the krigsherre's palace. The slight problem of having no idea where he or it was struck him at once. Looking around, he saw that the sand dunes stretched as far as even his elvish eyes could see in every direction. The Sun shone overhead but he had no idea how far into Harad he was or even if he should be moving North or South.

"Naturally, I would have to be dumped in the middle of nowhere, without a map or directions", he thought wearily.

Picking a direction at random, he began to walk. As he did so, the hot, dusty, winds blew and erased his previous footsteps so that he would have no clue of where he had been. He placed his hand on his sword hilt, the only thing he trusted here, and kept walking.

* * *

><p>Hours later, the harsh sun beat down on him until he was bathed in sweat and the little water that he had was looking more and more appealing, despite the fact that he knew he must save it as only the Valar knew when he would next encounter a place where he could refill his waterskins. The sand sank and shifted beneath him, the dunes harder to climb than any hill around Rivendell or, even, any hill in Arnor. Always there was another dune ahead, the view was so unchanging that, were it not for his muscles which were steadily starting to burn, it felt almost as if he was not moving.<p>

He failed to see how anyone could know or live in- much less love- this desert. Adjusting his sword, he moved fluidly into a light jog. The sooner that he found the krigsherre's palace the happier he would be. Already, he could not wait to leave the desert.

That night, his opinion of the desert sank even lower. While the days were boiling hot the nights were freezing cold. He shivered under his tunic that had seemed so warm during the day. The scorching days coupled with the bitter nights were going to sap his strength. He hoped he would reach the krigsherre's palace before he was too weakened.

He thanked the Valar that he was elvenkind and therefore less affected by the cold. Or, at least, he was going to but then reconsidered it. After all, it was their fault that he was in this place instead of the beautiful, temperate and comparably peaceful Imladris. At the moment, he longed to be there instead.

Picturing Rivendell, he thought longing of how cool it was with its gentle, warm sun and brisk, cool breezes that blew off the water. That was another thing he already missed, the abundant supply of water all around Rivendell and how after a long day he could comfortably bathe in cool waters of either the rivers or pools or even his bath. As a rock dug into his side he thought of his lovely bed.

But, most of all, he missed Elrond and Erestor, along with the rest of the Guard. He even longed to see Elrohir and Elladan- irritating as they could be. But he loved them as an uncle would love his nephews and they were his finest students, a great source of pride, usually. He worried what all of them would think with him suddenly disappearing literally into thin air without any warning but was easily able to reassure himself that they would be fine. Rávaníra would tell them where he was being sent, of that he was sure.

* * *

><p>Two days later, his opinion of the desert had not improved. He had, unfortunately, become caught in a sandstorm. Not being of the desert, he had not expected such a thing nor had he found sufficient shelter. Now, his water had been spilt, his lembas taken by the sand and he was left only with his weapons which he had been clutching desperately. He was lucky to have escaped with his life.<p>

The first warning he had received was a shift in the warm winds that blew constantly. It had been a small shift, barely noticeable, but though he was not from the desert he was an elf and a warrior. Unfortunately, while he had noticed he had thought nothing of it, reasoning that the wind in the desert must change once in a while and that there was likely nothing to be worried about.

Just minutes after he had decided that there was nothing to worry about he had seen a thin, dark line on the horizon. Glorfindel frowned to himself. He was rather sure that that line had not been there yesterday. Or the day before. Or, for that matter, an hour ago. He stopped and peered at the line, straining his elvish sight. His eyes widened as the line thickened noticeably. It also appeared closer. He decided that there was something to worry about.

The view continued to change, much to Glorfindel's chagrin, and soon it had become a thick band that stretched across the horizon. A horrible suspicion began growing in his mind. _No_, he thought to himself. _Please, tell me that that is not a sandstorm,_ he begged. Men or animals he could fight but he could not fight nature and he had no idea how to protect himself during a sandstorm.

In growing horror, he watched as the thick band of shadow grew and the horizon seemed to shrink. Every second the horizon seemed to grow smaller and closer as what was now evidently a sandstorm blotted it out.

It was terrible and powerful and terrifying, advancing on him just as the fires had once advanced on the city of Gondolin. With a look of wide-eyed terror, Glorfindel glanced around him desperately to see if there was anything approaching decent shelter nearby. He was caught up in memories and he was not certain what was real. The screams of those of Gondolin echoed in his ears as he gazed desperately at the desert. A Balrog was advancing, his mind screamed. But no, it wasn't a Balrog but a sandstorm.

Looking again at the advancing storm, Glorfindel figured that it might as well be a Balrog. It was dirty brown at the bottom, almost black, and it was a swirling mass of sand that towered thousands of meters tall, absorbing and destroying everything it encountered in its path. If he did not find shelter he would die. That was clear.

What was less clear was where he could find shelter. Surely, the Valar did not wish him to die here and now? They had sent him on a mission! He was Glorfindel of Gondolin, Balrog-slayer and of a House of Princes! He cared little for titles but surely he could not die here, killed by sand! But it was becoming quickly apparent that if he did not find shelter soon that was exactly what would happen.

Finally, he saw what might end up being his salvation. About eight hundred meters away was a sand dune. It wasn't particularly big but it was surrounded on one side by a huge rock which was protruding from the earth. Compared to the monster advancing on him it was very small and by no means anywhere near decent shelter but it was better than nothing. It might end up saving his life. It was now a question of whether he would reach the meagre shelter provided on time.

Glorfindel began to sprint towards the sand dune, knowing that he was running for his life. Every second he grew closer but so did the storm and it was approaching faster than he would have believed possible. The wind hit him and it was hot and fetid and full of flying grains of sand which whipped his face and body as he ran. The light was also dying as the storm blocked out the sun. But even as the wall of shadows advanced he kept running and kept his eyes fixed on the rocks. Even as they became shadowy forms he kept staring at them as his feet pounded upon the sand and he ran.

He reached the shelter of the rocks as the storm attained its peak, sand covering his eyes and mouth and nostrils. He coughed, inhaling more sand than he was expelling. Then some instinct prompted him to yank up the tunic to wrap it over his face and to turn his back to the storm. Then he lay himself down, his sword and bow in each hand, his quiver on his back and the pack of provisions at his feet.

The sand swirled all around him, blinding him, having somehow found a way through his tunic, and the wind shrieked its fury, making the storm seem as if it were alive. Darkness screamed around him as the storm tore at him, the wind just as hot as it had been in Mordor all those years ago when he had laid siege to it in the Second Age.

Suddenly, the wind grabbed his pack and tore it from the sand beside him, the sand taking it and bearing it away. With the loss of his pack, his fear disappeared and he was filled with fury instead. "Do not forsake me", he screamed to the Valar, but it came out as a dry, faltering croak instead. The flying dust and sand had stolen any moisture he had from him.

He stayed laying down, weapons held tightly in his hands and his body pressed hard against the rocks, as the storm raged above him. After, he did not know whether it lasted minutes or hours, he knew merely that he was still alive and breathing. Finally, he heard it abating and it died. He was left lying in the sand, his provisions gone and partially buried in dirty yellow brown sand. He spent some time freeing himself and then he emerged, coated and crusted in a fine layer of sand, his eyes red-rimmed and sore.

Another in his place would likely have cursed the situation or perhaps even wasted time and energy throwing a fit. Glorfindel did neither. He knelt down to pray to the Valar to thank them for sparing him then stood and brushed off as much sand as he could. Once he was as clean as he was likely to get, he began to walk once more.

To him, the desert was a strange and confusing sea of sand that was impossible to navigate but to others it was different. To others, it was home and as familiar as Imladris or Gondolin had been to him. To others, not only could you navigate the desert but if you found the clues you could solve its mysteries and uncover its secrets. To others, there were signs written upon the sand and those signs read a dangerous thing: there was a stranger aboard in the desert.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Translations and definitions<strong>

_Aratar:_ the eight most powerful of the Valar (Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Yavanna, Aulë, Mandos, Nienna and Oromë)

_Aulë: _the Smith, Father of dwarves and the husband of Yavanna

_fëa: _the soul or spirit

_Gondolin: _A hidden city of the Elves during the First Age, ruled by King Turgon. Hidden from the eyes of Melkor before it was betrayed and destroyed

_Helcaraxë: _An icy waste between the lands of Aman and Middle-Earth. Ceased to exist after the War of Wrath (End of First Age)

_Imladris:_ Also known as Rivendell, it is an elven outpost established and ruled by Lord Elrond

_Mandos: D_oomsman of the Valar he is called but he is not cruel. He speaks his dooms only at the bidding of Manwë and he understands well the vision of Eru__  
><em>_

_Manwë: _King of the Valar and husband of Varda he is the greatest of the Ainur in authority. He understands best the will of Eru but does not understand evil_  
><em>

_mithril: _most valuable of metals and extremely rare. It is very lightweight but also astonishingly strong and is used in alloys to make armour, weapons and jewellery

_Mordor: _A Black volcanic plain and Sauron's chosen fortress. It is surrounded on three sides by mountains

_Nienna: _Lady of Mercy, she pities and comforts all those in need of it

_Ulmo: _Lord of the Waters and King of the Sea

_Varda: _Queen of the Stars and most beloved of the Elves. She is the one most feared and hated by Melkor

_Yavanna: _Queen of the Earth and Giver of Fruits, Mother of the Ents

* * *

><p><strong>Here is the second chapter and I would like to thank <em>wrathking0001<em>, _Over-hill-and-under-hill_ and _EverleighBain_ for reviewing! The quotes are from ****Sabriel and Nick of Time respectively. Please tell me what you liked, disliked, ect. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed!**


	3. Chapter 2: The Attack

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><em>"Courage is not having the strength to go on, it is going on when you do not have the strength"<em>

_"We don't meet people by accident. They are meant to cross our path for a reason"_

_-_Sayings of the Elves

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Three days later, Glorfindel had not drunk or eaten anything since Rivendell, having previously wanted to save his provisions. That seemed like a foolish and unimportant thing to worry about now. The sun beat down upon him, tormenting him with it's never ending heat so he removed his tunic in the hopes of becoming cooler.

He had no way of knowing that the tunic had been keeping in the moisture and now, with it off, he was sweating and dehydrating twice as quickly. He was also slowly starting to lose his grasp on reality. He was unaccustomed to the heat and the sun beating down on his bare head was doing strange things to his mind.

For several hours, he was terrified that someone was following him, only to discover that it was naught but his own shadow. He found himself stumbling over the sand, his hand grasping the hilt of his now-burning-hot-sword with desperation as sweat pooled down his body and his mind became more and more confused. The only thing that remained constant was his pressing need for water… and the utter lack of it.

* * *

><p>Hours later, he no longer trusted himself to accurately judge the time passing, he was exhausted and he knew it. His mind was wandering and he was passing in and out of delirium. His thoughts never made sense but only half the time did he know that they were ridiculous. On those rare occasions when he knew that he was lost and confused and his wits were fleeing him he knew also that it was the lack of water and the heat that was stealing his mind.<p>

He was barely able to put one foot in front of the other, walking over the sand took so much effort that he wondered whether it was worth it or why he could not just collapse here, rest. Surely, just a little rest couldn't hurt, he reasoned.

But no, were he to fall he doubted he would be able to rise again, so he pushed on. He needed water. He was moving towards water. There had to be water. Water was the chant playing in his head so he pushed on, foot after foot, step after step. Never before had he been so thirsty.

The sun beat down upon him and scorched his bare skin, causing it to blister and burn. Soon, the salty sweat running down his back was upsetting the burns across the flesh. But the thought of pulling his tunic back on over the burns was even worse, particularly when he thought of how hot he would be in the tunic. He still did not realize how the lack of it was dehydrating him faster. He started to hallucinate.

As the hallucinations persisted, he suddenly saw the desert sand ripple and believed that he had found an oasis. He had found water! He stumbled to his knees, casting his bow and quiver to the side though he kept his hand on his sword. Even when he no longer knew what was real and what wasn't he remembered all the times that his teacher had told him, "Never drop your sword!" That rule had been engrained in his mind for over 5000 years. Even the state of his mind now could not make him forget it.

But the hand that was groping desperately for water encountered nothing but scorching hot sand. He could not believe that the water was imagined so he continued to grope desperately, stretching out on his stomach and feeling every inch of the sound. Water, he needed water, where was the water?

On his stomach, the air seemed to press into him, the sun beat hotter than ever and he realized that his head was pounding. That's odd, he remembered thinking before his eyes fluttered shut and darkness closed in on him. His hand was still groping for water that he was certain was just out of his reach.

* * *

><p>When his eyes opened his mind was functioning. The few hours before death brought a cruel sense of clarity. He knew now that he was going to die here. There were no more hallucinations plaguing his mind, instead things seemed all too clear.<p>

In every direction, for as far as he could see, stretched the sand dunes. There was no oasis and there was no water, even if he had had the strength to move (which he didn't) there was nowhere to go. The knowledge of his forthcoming death filled him with anger and sadness. He had defeated a Balrog, he was Glorfindel of Gondolin! He could not die here, alone and in the desert, from starvation and dehydration!

Suddenly, through his exhaustion, there came another sound. It pierced the desert and it was a howl, the howl of a wolf. No, not a wolf, for there was no wolves in the desert that he knew of. Besides, this cry was somehow gruffer, fiercer and crueller. It was the howl of a warg.

Glorfindel was first a warrior, he had always been a warrior, and when he heard the panting animal approach he somehow found the strength to push his way to his feet. It took far more effort than he would have liked and he was somewhat unsteady but at least he was no longer hallucinating. Thank the Valar for small mercies!

The warg burst suddenly into view, not one but three. For the first time he appreciated that the desert could be used to conceal things and that perhaps his eyes had missed valuable clues. The sight of three wargs was burdensome but Glorfindel could only be thankful that there were no orcs or human with them. On their own, wargs were far stupider than had they had someone to direct them.

His sword was a shining length of steel in his hand but it felt heavy and Glorfindel knew that he wouldn't be able to last long. He would have to kill these beasts as quickly as possible and hope that none came after them.

The first warg reached him and he simply waited, gathering his strength, before lunging and thrusting at the last second. He had timed it perfectly, thank Eru that his mind was clear, and his sword buried itself in the heart of the warg, parting skin and bone as if cutting through butter.

Blood spurted and the warg fell down as Glorfindel wrenched on his sword with all his strength. It slipped out and he stood straight again, facing the other two that had halted, now wary.

They came at him at the same time, from each side. Once, he would have jumped, either straight in the air or to either side, but he had not the strength for that now. Instead, he let two lightning-fast strikes fall, one across the face of the first warg and the other he whirled to face before slicing his blade down the warg's ribs.

The blade cut deeply, through flesh and bone, and the warg went down, still twitching. Glorfindel took the precaution of slitting its throat in case it hadn't been quite dead and was still some type of threat. Then, from beside him, Glorfindel felt something big and heavy smash into him.

Claws tore into his shoulder and scraped down his side to his hip, hot breath blew into his face and blood dripped down onto his cheek. His sword, he struggled to raise it, but it was so heavy! He could not seem to get it up.

Suddenly, a voice spoke in his head. The voice was strong and firm and (surprisingly) feminine. "Do you want to die", the voice asked. He felt that he should recognize the voice but he was unable to. All he could do was answer.

"No", he whispered through numb lips. "Do you want to fail", the voice asked harshly, almost accusing. "No", he whispered again, this time a bit stronger.

"Then lift your sword", the voice said. But it was so heavy and he was pinned and what was the point? He was so tired… "Lift your sword", the voice commanded. It was a clear command and it brought to mind flashing eyes that were a mix of blue, green and grey. The command was so clear, and sharp and strong, that Glorfindel somehow found the strength to obey.

He opened his spirit, releasing the power that he held in the Unseen world, and raised his sword, sweeping it in a sharp slash at the warg standing poised above him. It fell backwards and died, its final howls filling the desert.

Glorfindel found the strength to sheath his sword and cast it to the ground near him before pressing his hands to his wounded side from where blood was flowing. He grasped his tunic which he had previously tied around his waist and pressed it desperately to the wound in an attempt the staunch the bleeding.

The world was spinning and he fell to his knees, still clutching his side. Then fell from his knees and he turned over and the weight was all on his side and it hurt so much but he didn't have the strength to move. Pain was lancing through him and he felt so tired, so dizzy. He wondered dimly if this is what it felt like to die. Then he remembered that he had already died. Last time it hadn't felt quite like this, he thought. When the darkness came he wanted to fight but he didn't seem to have the strength. Finally, he surrendered to the darkness, grateful for the lack of pain.

* * *

><p>The woman was extremely tall for the Haradrim with light coffee coloured skin and deep, dark eyes that seemed almost black at first glance. She was filthy with a thick layer of dust covering her and she was tired but a fire still burned in her eyes.<p>

She wore the robes of a man and she had forgone any veils though she did wear the headscarf of a man to protect herself from the burn of the sun as well as to tie around her nose and mouth should a sandstorm come. She led a fine horse that carried a few bags of provisions and she held a scimitar. Upon her horse lay her bow and quiver though tucked up her sleeves were another two knives. She was young but intelligent and she had been through many hardships.

It was the birds that had attracted her because they were now circling above the carcasses of the dead wargs. They were eagerly feeding on them, well used to such a meal. Deaths in the desert were common, particularly in these times.

The woman approached the battle site warily, taking in the three dead wargs with narrowed eyes. Her mind quickly sorted through and stored the facts. It was wargs that were dead so it was likely no friend of the Enemy that had done it. There were only five visible wounds on all the wargs combined so the warrior must have been skilled. There was no sign of orcs so the wargs had likely been hunting before growing distracted.

Her horse shied away from the wargs and tossed its sleek head at the scent of blood that hung in the air. The horse was a dun, a coat with the same colour as the sands and a black mane and tail. It danced a few steps, not wanting to approach the carcasses.

"Shh, Voronwë", she soothed, her lips briefly twitching as they recalled her father's anger when he had heard that she had named her horse something in elvish. Quenya, her friend had called it. Nevertheless, she thought that the name suited the horse. Her friend and told her that it meant steadfastness and Voronwë had been loyal and true through many adventures.

Sure enough, the horse settled, trusting its mistress. The woman slowly knotted the reins. "Stay", she ordered the horse firmly, before grasping the hilt of her scimitar and moving to inspect the rest of the battlefield.

She had just stepped over the second warg when the sun glinted off something and she caught sight of the man. He lay in the sand, eyes open and sword by his side. A fine made bow and a quiver of arrows lay not far away and the sand was soaked in his blood. She walked over, some sense attracting her to this fallen warrior.

The sun glinted off his golden hair and lit up his youthful features. His eyes were the deepest, brightest blue she had ever seen, even glazed and unfocused as they were now. His skin was burnt and blistered, presumably by the sun. She scanned all around him, looking for clues to his identity.

His clothes were well-made but entirely unsuited for the desert; his weapons were some of the finest she had ever seen. He seemed to have no provisions though and there were no signs of a horse or camel. She frowned, unsure of how he had gotten here.

Then, that mystery was driven from her mind as a dry breeze played out over the desert. It blew over his face and brushed back his hair, which she now realised, was extremely long. The breeze ruffled the hair and revealed something that made her eyes widen and she felt herself gasp. He had delicately pointed ears. He was no man but an elf!

That explained his perfection, she mused. But what in Arda was he doing in Harad? She felt an overwhelming sense of sadness come over her as she surveyed how his blood was seeping into the sand. It was rare for an elf to die and seeing it seemed wrong.

She raised her scimitar in a salute, beginning the ancient Haradrim blessing for a fallen warrior. As it invoked the old gods, it was forbidden these days, not that she cared. "Wrath and ruin, fire and blood, all this you have seen", she started. Suddenly, she stopped because she had seen something impossible. She thought that his chest had risen and fallen the slightest bit.

She quickly sheathed her scimitar and cast it away, falling to her knees. Pressing her face to his heart, she waited. Seconds passed but then, to her wonder and disbelief, she felt it beat. It was faint and weak and irregular and far too fast but it was beating. He was alive!

It was irrational and crazy and somehow she knew that at some point she would regret it but at that moment only one thought ran through her brain. He could not die! She did not know why he was in the desert, she did not know why she felt this way, but she knew that no matter what she could not let this elf die.

As gently as she could, she rolled him over onto his other side so that she could see the damage. An experienced glance followed by a pinch showed her that he was extremely dehydrated but she needed to know how badly he was injured.

From the shoulder to the hip there were the marks of three warg claws. The claws had tone through his flesh and the wound was still bleeding sluggishly. It would need stitches though she was loath to put any in with properly cleaning the needle. But she had no choice.

"Voronwë", she called and let out a sharp whistle. Her horse bolted immediately towards her. She thrust her hands into one of her saddlebags and came out clutching a roll of bandages which she hurriedly pressed to the wounds. Applying firm pressure, she waited until they stopped bleeding, mostly.

Then, using a bit of her precious water, she began cleaning the sides of the wound, mentally preparing herself for what she had to do next.

Once that was finished, she started threading a needle that was also from her saddlebags. Pausing to take final breath, she slowly began stitching the wound. The woman, unlike most Haradrim women, had never been a skilled seamstress but she had learned basic healing and her hands were steady.

Tying off the final stitch, she wished that she had some type of salve or poultice to put over the stitches but she had nothing. All she could do was bandage the wounds securely then get the elf some place safe. Preferably out of the sun as well because he seemed to have sun-sickness in addition to his burns, and thirst, and wounds.

She nearly snorted at his stupidity, what in Arda he had been thinking; wandering the desert with neither provisions nor any type of preparation she did not know. Tarks, she did not know how any of them managed to cause so much trouble if they all had that level of intelligence. Then she paused because, for some reason, she didn't want to think of this man- elf- as a tark. _Sentimental fool,_ she thought at herself. But she did not think of him as a tark again. He was a _dakheel _but she would not think of him as a tark.

Glancing again at him, she hesitated. She was extremely tall for a Haradrim but he was a rather large elf and she was, by comparison, quite small. There was no way that she would be able to carry him. Sighing, she slowly led Voronwë forwards and lay him down before ridding him of the two biggest saddlebags.

Then, hesitantly, she grabbed the elf's shoulders and dragged him up onto Voronwë's back, taking care to mind his wounds. He was surprisingly light and the woman was able to pull him onto Voronwë's back without straining anything. She supposed that it had something to do with elves.

Shaking her head, she removed one coil of precious rope from her saddlebag and tied him securely to Voronwë's back. The elf was lucky that she often used this rope to tie down the saddlebags in a sandstorm. Had she not brought the rope she would not have been able to move him to anywhere remotely safe.

She clicked her tongue and told Voronwë to stand, nodding in satisfaction that the rope held and the elf did not fall. Shouldering the saddlebags, she picked up the elf's sword and bow, tossing the quiver onto Voronwë and ignoring his look at her. Grasping the reins, she began to walk, Voronwë trailing behind her, towards where she knew there to be hidden caves.

The caves were of sandstone and they were dry and dusty but they were the most hidden shelter offered in miles and they would have to suffice. With a bit of luck, she could reach the caves before darkness and then hopefully awaken the elf.

Glancing at him, she wondered why she had saved him. He wasn't being chased yet but she was 100% certain that others would read the signs that the elf had undoubtedly left and then they would know that there was a stranger in the desert.

They would find the dead wargs and they would hunt him. He- an elf- would surely attract the gaze of the Enemy, a gaze she herself was fleeing. He would be a lot of trouble that she could have prevented by simply leaving him there. But she remembered how wrong that view had seemed, how unnatural and evil it had seemed to watch an elf die. Certainty hit her yet again, no matter what, _she could not let him die!_

* * *

><p><span><strong>Translations and definitions<strong>

_Arda:_ the Earth, both Middle-Earth and Aman where dwell the Ainur

_Balrog: d_emons of the ancient world, they were Maiar spirits who were corrupted by Melkor

_dakheel: _Haradaic for foreigner, but politely

_orcs: _created by Melkor they were Sauron's servants and soldiers, also known as Goblins

_Quenya: _one of the languages spoken by the Elves

_tark: _Haradaic for foreigner, extremely rude and an insult

_Voronwë:_ steadfastness

_warg: _canine beasts similar to wolves, they were used by the orcs

* * *

><p><strong>Here is the third chapter and I hope you have all been enjoying this story! The quote was by Theodore Roosevelt and an unknown author. <strong>**I would like to thank _blackunicorne_ for reviewing the last chapter! Please review this chapter. Tell me what you like, dislike, find great, find terrible ect. It is now that I write my own stories that I understand why people ask for reviews so much: because they really do help. So please tell me what you think of this mysterious woman, how my portrayal of Glorfindel is and anything else that comes to mind. Thank you for reading!**


	4. Chapter 3: The Woman

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><em>"I was lost, injured, and alone; and my life was now held in a stranger's hands"<em>

_"No experience, no promise, no certainty- just pure, blind trust. Somehow, it was enough"_

-Lines from the Legend of the Battle-Queen

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

When Glorfindel began to regain conscious the first thing that registered was the pain. The second was his thirst. The third, the fact that he was not dead. He closed his eyes briefly in thanks, grateful for the fact that he was not dead.

He was still extremely weak but as he laid there, eyes still closed, he began to become confused. For one thing, where was he? He could no longer feel the sun beating down on him nor could he smell the stench of dead warg. The stench that he knew should be filling the air at this very moment, were he lying where he had fallen. But he was no longer there, he could sense it.

The next question that occurred to him was how he had moved. He knew well that he himself did not have the strength to do so. At the moment, the prospect of opening his eyes which he had closed not two minutes ago was looking difficult!

Suddenly, a hand brushed over his cheek with a feather light touch. The skin was soft but he felt hard calluses across the palm and upon the fingertips. While this hand may once have been delicate it was now made strong by the harsh life of the desert and the toil that this hand had done. Yet the touch itself had been comforting and gentle, as if the owner had wanted to be reassured that he was real.

A cloth full of something cool bathed his forehead and, although it hurt his burns, he breathed out in relief at the wonderful sensation of something cool. It hurt, but it was an entirely different hurt than the pain of the sun rays and it brought with it a feeling of soothing comfort. Finally, there was something here to relieve him from the heat of the desert.

With dawning clarity, he realised that whatever cool substance was bathing his head must contain water. Immediately, his thirst was overwhelming, nothing mattered but the water that was so close. Water that could slake his unimaginable thirst.

He tried to open his eyes but they were gummed shut. He opened his mouth a crack and tried to move his tongue that was swollen. He felt his lips with his senses, they were dry and cracked. He felt that beautiful, wondrous water at his forehead again. He was thirsty, so with far more effort than it should take, he managed to open his eyes.

There was a woman crouched over him, it was her who was bathing his forehead. She looked young- little more than a girl- but she was no child. The look in her eyes proved this. It was slightly haunted yet also strong. It was a gaze that had seen horrors and looked death in the eye yet also one who had defied it and chosen life. This woman could convey much through her eyes.

Unsurprisingly, he saw that she had the darkened skin and eyes of a Haradrim. To his surprise, he found that he thought she was rather beautiful in an exotic way. Her skin was a light brown colour that glowed in the firelight. He couldn't see the fire but he heard it crackling in the background. Her features were delicate and contained an air of nobility about them yet there was also a strength that filled them.

Her eyes, which he could see very clearly as she now glared at him, were dark and flecked with gold. But there was no hatred burning in those eyes and he found it impossible to name her a danger as he usually would a Haradrim. After all, she had saved him and there was no hatred in her eyes. Yet. He wondered suddenly why she had saved him but decided that now probably wasn't the best time to ask. After all, she had suddenly started glaring.

"Water, please", he murmured, or, rather, tried to murmur. Through his dry, cracked lips, it came out more like a croak and Glorfindel was surprised that the woman understood a thing.

Instead of politely going to fetch him water as he expected, she turned her eyes to him and they turned cold and hard. "Release me, now", she ordered, steel in her tone. But under the steel there was something else, something uncertain and almost afraid. Glorfindel realised then, to his embarrassment, that he had somehow grabbed onto her wrist and was now clutching it like a lifeline. He let go quickly.

"Forgive me", he started to say. "I had not realised-", then he broke into a coughing fit. The woman's eyes softened the slightest bit and she turned away. When she turned back there was a waterskin in her hand and she propped him up against her leg so he was half sitting before raising the skin to his lips to help him drink.

Glorfindel drank desperately, greedily, and found the skin being yanked away. "Slowly", she said, pronouncing the word carefully. That was when he remembered that if he drank too much too quickly his stomach would sour and he would simply vomit it all up, wasting what was sure to be valuable in the desert. _Idiot_, he thought to himself. Thank Eru that this woman seemed to have some sense; his had seemingly been left in Imladris.

He tried nodding and, after a moment, the water was placed back at his lips and a bit was allowed to trickle into his mouth. For the next several minutes, he would be allowed to drink water a bit at a time. Finally, the water was taken away and he sat, still propped against her leg, regarding the woman.

It was then that he realised that it must have been the woman who had stitched and bound his wounds (because he could feel the stitches quite clearly), as well as take him out of the sun and give him water. He also realised how much easier it would have been for her to simply let him die.

"Thank you", he murmured, wanting to somehow convey exactly how thankful he was in those two small words. He doubted that he had succeeded. He wished that his head would stop pounding him so he could properly think. Something was nagging him...

The woman hesitated before saying, "I do not know who you are or what you are doing. You are in no condition to tell me. I have recovered your sword, bow and arrows. You will get them back once I feel that I can trust you. If I find that I cannot trust you then I will kill you. For now, sleep."

If he had been capable, Glorfindel would have told her exactly what he thought about her orders and thoughts of killing him. He would have told her that it wasn't her business what he was doing here. He would also have explained to her that it was impossible for him to sleep as he was in an unknown location and the only other person with him had just threatened to kill him. He would have also demanded back his weapons, particularly his new sword. It had served him well against the wargs and was a gift from the Valar. She had no right to touch it.

Unfortunately, he found that he had none of the strength required to do any of it. Much to his own disappointment, he found that once the woman (Aman, he still didn't know her name!) had set his head down, he felt a wave of exhaustion roll over him.

He wanted to sleep; his body was insisting that he sleep. He resisted for a few seconds before realising the futility of this. Then, extremely reluctantly, he surrendered to the sleep.

**(The Woman's POV) **The Haradrim woman stood as she watched him sleep. It was strange that these elves slept with their eyes open, it gave them the appearance of being either awake or dead. But she could see the glazed, vacant expression over his eyes that meant that he was either asleep or dead and she could see the steady rise and fall of his chest that assured her that he has still among the living.

The steady rise and fall of his smooth, firm and well-muscled chest, an irritating voice at the back of her mind said. She blushed, heat flooding her cheeks, before quickly banishing such thoughts from her brain.

She wondered who he was. A warrior, that much was obvious from his weapons and by the fact that he was clearly suffering from sun-sickness, exhaustion and dehydration yet had still managed to kill three wargs on his own. She knew men- esteemed warriors- who would not have been able to dispatch of three wargs at their best. The sheer speed between attacks would have had to be phenomenal- not to mention the fact that each blow on the wargs had been carefully calculated. Just these facts told her that he was no ordinary warrior.

He was also not used to being told what to do or helpless. She had seen the brief flash of fire in his eyes when she told him to sleep. Had he had more strength he would have certainly fought back. She felt a thrill go through her as she realised this.

With the men that she knew, it tended to be that they were either afraid of her, she was their leader or they were trying to kill her. Not many men would argue with her or show a spark of the fire that this elf did. Not anymore.

But what in Arda was he doing here? He clearly knew nothing of the desert and he was extremely ill-prepared but he was not unintelligent. Curiosity burned at her. She wanted to know why an elf would be in the desert.

Voronwë snorted from the doorway and she sighed. It seemed that an answer would not be forthcoming. Moving closer to the fire, the woman hoped that soon she would know more about the elf. At the moment she knew nothing, not even his name.

Her eyebrows creased ever so slightly at the thought and she shook her head the smallest degree. That was not true. She may not know his name but she did know a bit. She knew that he was nothing like any man that she had ever met before.

She remembered how he had grabbed onto her wrist upon awakening. The men of Harad often treated their women like that, taking them as slaves or members of their harem. Those women had no freedom save that which the men gave them and they were trapped for good, their own lives no longer theirs. She had sworn that such an existence would never be hers.

The strength in his grip had frightened her for, even weakened, he was far stronger than anyone she had ever known. She had been unable to pull herself free, it seemed that he had not even noticed her attempts. So, for that, she had glared and demanded that she be freed, ignoring his request for water. But under her anger there had been fear.

It was when he had done so, at once, then apologized that she realised he was embarrassed. She had never been as relieved as she was in that moment. Embarrassed meant that he had not meant to do it, that the gesture was completely unintentional. It was then that she had first realised exactly how different he was.

Brought back to the present, she glanced once more at this strange elf. When he started to shiver she frowned. The night air was cold and his skin was burned badly by the sun. She wished she had the healing cream usually used by her people when the skin was damaged like that.

He began to shiver more violently and she crossed over to him and called Voronwë. She told him to lie down then moved the elf beside him, laying him against Voronwë's warmth. She was pleasantly surprised that Voronwë accepted him, he usually detested strangers. But, elves were said to be good with animals after all. She supposed that that legend must be true. She smiled slightly when the elf stopped shivering.

Leaning away from the fire, she glanced around the cave, letting her eyes take in their weapons and meagre provisions. They would need more food and they would need far more water. The elf would need new clothes, she considered. His were certainly unfit for the desert.

She caught herself staring at him, her eyes tracing the lines of his body, and slammed her hand against the ground. He was a foreign elf, an enemy of her people! She should not be looking at him like that, or caring for him. She should be either killing him or leaving him to die! He was a foreigner, an elf, a possible enemy, a dangerous warrior, a potential threat! He was…very attractive.

The thought formed before she could prevent it and she jumped to her feet and began to pace, keeping watch on her own. She was tempted to go kick him or shake him awake. She wanted answers, damn it! She wanted to know who he was and why he was here and how he was making her feel this way and even _what_ he was making her feel!

Were all elves like this, she wondered. Was this some type of elf magic that he was doing to her? She shook her head to clear it. She would heal him, find out what he was doing here, then rejoin her father. If necessary, she would kill him. Simple.

That night it was lucky that there was no danger for had there been she doubted that she would have been able to do much. She was far too preoccupied with thinking about the elf. She wished she knew why thoughts of him wouldn't leave her mind.

* * *

><p><strong>Here is the fourth chapter of <em>Winds of Change<em> and thank you all for reading this story! I hope you all liked seeing more of our mysterious Haradrim who has saved poor Glorfindel! I would like to thank _blackunicorne_ for reviewing the last chapter and, again, request reviews once again for this chapter. The one who guesses what is nagging Glorfindel gets a prize (and feel free to suggest one because I haven't come up with it yet :))! Please also tell me what you think of our first OC, what you like, dislike, how I can improve, how you are liking my portrayal of Glorfindel and anything else that comes to mind! Thanks again! **


	5. Chapter 4: A Name and a Disagreement

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><em>"Fear is not an instinct. Fear is learned after pain"<em>

-Pallando the Blue

_"I will fight, and I will bleed, and I will live, and I will die for my country. Not as it is now, but as it was- and will be again"_

-Battle-Queen of Harad

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

When Glorfindel awoke he still felt weak but he was far better than before. There was a delicious smell emanating from the front of the cave. To his embarrassment, his hunger showed through and his stomach rumbled. The woman spun on her knee, her hand dropping to one of her long knives, and stared at him instantly. Glorfindel felt the slightest bit impressed, for a human she had remarkably quick reflexes.

"You are awake then", she noted. She had a soft accent to her Westron. Glorfindel was currently enjoying it for she spoke the tongue well, accent or not. That's when those words finally managed to enter his thick head. She spoke Westron.

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes at her, his suspicions rising. Few Haradrim would be able to speak Westron, for that they would need to be someone of some importance. But why would anyone of importance be alone, in the middle of the desert. For that matter, why would a woman of any importance be permitted to bear weapons? Why would a woman be permitted to learn Westron? Either Elrond had gotten the customs of Harad _very_ wrong or there was something abnormal going on here. Glorfindel was currently leaning towards the latter. Elrond was rarely wrong.

"You slept for several hours, golden hair", she said. Glorfindel tensed at that name. Did she somehow know who he was? Was she a servant of the Enemy? Was he in danger?

"Why do you call me that", he asked quietly, after a pause, acutely aware of the fact that he was weak and weaponless while she was both strong and armed.

To his surprise, she rolled her eyes. "Because you have not told me your name and I had to call you something", she replied in the slow, careful voice that one would use when explaining something to a child. Her eyes were saying eloquently, _that is obvious, you idiot._

Glorfindel should feel embarrassed but all he felt was relief and some amusement. He had heard that the Haradrim woman were timid and docile, obedient to their husband's wishes. This woman was anything but.

"You haven't given me the pleasure of hearing your name either, my lady", he retorted teasingly. She reeled back as if she'd been smacked.

"I am not your lady", she said with flashing eyes. But her hand dropped to the hilt of her scimitar and even her sudden anger could not fully mask the fear that was hidden in the back of her eyes. He knew then that she had thought of something different than the teasing exchange he had meant and there had been a grievous misunderstanding between them.

He instinctively tried to sit up to explain all this to her but then he saw that she was getting more and more scared. Her scimitar was halfway out of its sheath when he relaxed, lay back down, and spoke to her using the tone that one would use to calm a frightened animal.

"Forgive me, I think that there has been some type of misunderstanding", he said as lowly and gently as he could. "I do not know who taught you Westron or where they are from, but 'my lady' is merely a form of respect and courtesy, used most often as a title of nobility. It is nothing more than that".

The woman blushed and her hand dropped from hilt of her scimitar, though her eyes continued to scan him. They were cold, and hard, and sharp as steel. In them was reflected pain and fear and suffering. Glorfindel knew that if she decided that he was a threat she would not hesitate to kill him. He felt glad that, so far, it seemed that she did not judge him a threat.

She returned poking at the fire and eventually came over to him holding a bowl. Inside the bowl lay rabbit meat, cooked, sliced and ready to be eaten. Glorfindel was starving and, as she helped him sit up, he eagerly took the bowl in shaking hands and said a quick prayer of thanks in Quenya. But then, as he held the bowl, he paused.

"Are you not going to eat, my l-", he cut himself off, not wanting to say anything that would distress her. It annoyed him that he couldn't call her 'my lady' but if it irritated her or made her nervous then it would be folly to call her thus. At the moment, she was the closest thing to an ally that he had. His survival was in her hands. She ignored his efforts, instead deciding to answer his question.

"I wait for you. I have only one bowl", she replied sharply. She knew the difference between hungry, as she was; and starving, as he was. She could wait for her meal. Upon hearing that, although he was hungry, Glorfindel tried to push away the bowl.

"You eat first. I could not eat before you", he said. She glared, "You nearly died not two days ago and you are still incredibly weak. I will not have you treat me differently because my gender, I am neither sheltered nor weak! You're starving, fool, so eat!"

Glorfindel just stared at her. Had he somehow insulted her? He hadn't meant too but he had not thought it proper to eat before a lady. He decided to make it right.

"Forgive me for insulting yo-", he started to say. She threw her hands in the air and exclaimed something in Haradaic. Although he didn't speak the tongue, he had a feeling that it was not a compliment. "Of all the", she muttered briefly in Westron, continuing once more in Haradaic.

Once she finished saying whatever she had been, she moved towards him, a scowl on her face. To his surprise, she picked up the bowl, shoved it towards him and said aggressively, "eat or I will feed you!"

He picked up the bowl being offered to him with a slightly shaking hand and began to eat. The rabbit was rather stringy but Glorfindel was so hungry that he did not care. The woman's gaze never wavered as she watched him eat and under that gaze he began to feel slightly uncomfortable. What was it about this woman that unnerved him so?

Once he was finished, he pushed away his empty plate and watched as she went to get her portion of the meal. Her movements were both mechanical and fluid so he could tell that removing a prepped rabbit from the coals was something that she had done many times before. There was no hesitation or fumbling of the sort that would be evident had she done this but few times before. But then, he thought, he hadn't expected there to be.

When he returned she began to eat quickly but she did not eat as he had been expecting and it was evident that she had been taught some manners. Manners beyond what was taught to the children of farmers or labourers. Her manners came without thought or effort and Glorfindel knew that they had been coached into her at a very young age. How interesting.

"You never gave me the privilege of hearing your name", Glorfindel called, hoping to catch her off guard and gain in return an honest answer. Or at least something to go on. Because he was now intrigued by this woman. She was certainly more than she seemed, possibly an adversary and certainly dangerous. But a little voice at the back of his head kept insisting that she could make a powerful ally.

She stiffened then let a blank mask fall over her face as she said, "the Haradrim have many names, golden hair. You shall have to be more specific." She spoke with condescension and arrogance, trying deliberately to provoke him.

Glorfindel contained a grin, she would have to try harder than that if she wished to anger him and he would certainly not be distracted so easily. "Then tell me one of your many names", he urged. "Tell me what I can call you yet that is also true".

(**The Woman's POV**) Thoughts flew through my mind at the speed of lightning; my bowl hovered in the air, my food forgotten. What name could I give him to call me?

I had spoken the truth, I had several names. What he, hopefully, had no way of knowing was that this was not quite as common as I had tried to pass it off. It was steeped in tradition, but not common.

I thought through my names, trying not to show that I was panicking. For some reason, the thought of simply refusing to give him my name never occurred to me. Lying, I knew, was impossible. It was from his eyes that I knew this for they shone now brighter than I had ever seen them, filled with something I could describe only as light and power.

He had captured my gaze and was now looking straight into my eyes. His gaze was sharp and clear and penetrating. He was not going to be fooled by any type of deception and he would know I was lying before a word came out of my mouth.

I could not tell him my old name, Dagor Tariel. That was my previous name to the Haradrim but I could use it no longer. Besides, it was too well-known. But I would also not tell him my current name which was Eledríel. That name revealed far too much to a stranger, it was no more private than the former, and, most importantly, I refused to think of myself as such. But, other than those two, I had only one other name. My birth name.

My birth name, one that was supposed to only be used by family and the closest of friends. I knew that this was a custom used only by those of my class (or near my class) in Harad. I knew too that in other parts of Arda your birth name was used commonly. But I was not accustomed to revealing it to others and part of me hesitated to do so.

But his eyes bore into mine with an intensity that shocked me and I knew that I had to answer. My birth name was safest, I reasoned with myself. Few knew me by it, it would reveal nothing to him and it would not be recognized- or used- by my enemies. It really was for the best, I concluded.

So, lifting my chin and putting the bowl down firmly, I straightened my spine and answered with all the pride I could summon. "My name is Jakira, golden hair. May I receive the honour of knowing yours", I added with sarcasm to my tone and a glare.

(**Glorfindel POV**) Her face showed only pride when she announced her name but her eyes were far too easily read for her purposes and they showed hesitation. But she had not lied, that I knew.

"Jakira", I murmured, because it was a strange yet pretty name. A name that was clearly foreign but seemed to suit her, even though I did not know its definition.

"Your name, golden hair", she ordered sharply, her face stern and her body tensing as if in preparation for a fight. It was very clearly an order. I smiled, amused, and said, "I am Glorfindel of Imladris, Jakira of Harad."

I had decided not to use Gondolin because that name was far too well known by any of the important servants of Sauron and as few knew that it had once existed any rumour of its mention would reach his ears far too fast. Besides, Gondolin was gone while Imladris stood. I was the Captain of Imladris so I supposed that I was Glorfindel of Imladris now, strange though that sounded.

Jakira stared at me, her expression hard, and asked, "What are you doing in the desert, Glorfindel of Imladris? Where are you going and why have you come? How did you arrive, miles from any border, in clothes unfit for the desert, with neither horse nor supplies?

"You should be dead, gol- _Glorfindel of Imladris. _You should never have reached this far. I want to know how you are here, and why you are here, and what you plan on doing here", she stated, eyes blazing with sudden fire.

I tried to get up but my body was still weak so I stopped after sitting. I didn't want to show this woman- Jakira- how weak I was.

Instead, I smiled at her and replied, "I come from Imladris and my reasons are my own. I am grateful to you for saving my life but I neither know you nor can trust you".

"You must tell me", she demanded urgently, refusing to take 'no' for an answer. "Why do you care so", I responded, hoping that she would give me some way of satisfying her without answers. It was a foolish hope but I felt it worth it to try.

She looked at me and responded, "If you are a threat to Harad I cannot let you live. If you are a threat to my country or my people then you must leave at once or die".

I made a mental note of the fact that she referred to Harad as her country and her people. That could be normal but there had been a hint of pride and possession when she spoke of Harad and the Haradrim. That did not make much sense to me and I knew that I was missing some vital piece of information. But my face revealed nothing as I filed it away in my mind.

"You give me very little incentive to tell you the truth were I to be an enemy of Harad", I said, straight-faced. She jumped up, "if you are an enemy of Harad you must leave or die", she stated fiercely.

"I cannot leave, Jakira of Harad. I will not leave. I will accept death, if I must, but I will not leave. Besides, you may find me harder to kill than you suspect".

"Why are you here", she demanded again. "I must know! I will not stop asking until I know. I need to know", she said. I gazed at her calmly, not smiling because I had no wish to antagonize her. I wanted to smile though. Her determination and loyalty were touching and she herself was different and intriguing. To see her so impassioned was interesting.

"Then you will needs to become used to disappointment", I said, a note of finality to my tone. As far as I was concerned, this discussion was over and there was nothing more to say. Naturally, Jakira disagreed and she ignored that note of finality.

"I am not accustomed to suffering disappointment such as that", she retorted, suddenly, passionately. Her cheeks were tinged with red that was visible even with her darkened skin and her eyes were bright as they flashed.

"I am sorry for that, Jakira", I replied. "However I cannot tell you my reason for being here". I was sorry but there was no way I could tell some woman I had just met that I was here on a mission from the Valar.

She shot to her feet in one agile move, her face showing a mix of confusion, anger and irritation.

"I could kill you", she announced. "You are refusing to tell me why you are here, you are possibly a great threat to Harad. I could kill you here and now".

Ah, this would have to be dealt with delicately, not in the least because my life was possibly on the line. I wondered how often my life was going to be threatened before I was allowed to return to Imladris. Something told me that it would be several times.

I looked at her and watched as her face reflected desperation and her hand moved towards the hilt of her scimitar. I looked at her seriously, catching her gaze and piercing it with mine, before saying, "you could kill me. Here and now, as I lie mostly helpless, you could kill me very easily. I would imagine that you know how to do so in several different ways. But you won't".

I hoped that I had judged her correctly. I hoped that I had read the emotions in her eyes correctly and that she wasn't the type of woman who would become enraged and kill me just to prove that she could.

For a second, anger and defiance flashed in her eyes as she raised her hand slightly and looked like she was going to draw her sword. Then, her hand fell back to her side and she looked at me with an expression of fury and resignation.

"You are correct. I cannot kill you here and now as you lie there helpless". Then, holding her sword, she snapped something in Haradaic to her horse before stalking out of the cave, her steps long and furious but silent.

I lay back against the cloak, wondering when she would return.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Translations and definitions<strong>

_Harad: _A large country in the South that is very hot and has traditionally supported Morgoth and Sauron. Their ways are very different than those of the West

_Haradaic: _the native language of the Haradrim, very different from Westron

_Haradrim: _the people of Harad

_Westron: _the Common Tongue, spoken by nearly everyone in the West of Middle-Earth but rare in Harad, Rhûn and Khand.

* * *

><p><strong>Here is the fifth chapter where we were able to learn a bit more about Jakira. I hope you liked her! For those that did not guess, before what had been nagging Glorfindel was the fact that she spoke Westron which seems to be slightly suspicious to him. The first quote at the beginning is by Doe Zatamata. I would like to thank <em>blackunicorne<em> for reviewing the last chapter. Now that the thanks have been given, I must beg, once again, for reviews. I know that sometimes it seems a lot of effort to review but please take the time to type something, even if its only a couple words. It really does help and it encourages me to keep writing this and to keep updating quickly. So please, tell me what you liked, disliked, are looking forwards to and are confused about. Tell me how I can improve and what you think of my characters and story so far. Thank you to all who have reviewed this story already. Thanks for reading and I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. I can't wait to post the next! **


	6. Chapter 5: To Fight and To Think

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><em>"She fought for survival and freedom since childhood... she was burned by fire then rose from the ashes... she is no survivor, she is a warrior"<em>

-Lines from the Legend of the Battle-Queen

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

(**Jakira POV**) Like a child, I stormed out of the cave, filled with anger and embarrassment. I must look like a fool, I knew, but at the moment I did not care. I was far too angry to care. I had ordered Voronwë to stay with the elf before storming off so at least I did not have to worry about him. Briefly, I wondered whether by him I meant Voronwë or the elf but I banished that thought.

About 400m from the cave, I took a fighting stance and whipped out my scimitar. The rasp of steel on steel followed by the slight ring as the end of the blade drew forth was comforting in its familiarity and I drank in the view of my weapon, the finest weapon that I had ever seen, in my opinion.

It was a light sword, easy to use both one and two-handed but still strong and keen. Gently curved, it looked like the type of sword an elf might use. But to me, it was much more than any object. It was the physical sign of my freedom. It was a sign that I won't be controlled, _owned_, by any man unlike most of the women of Harad. It was a sign that I was in charge of my own destiny and that I was free.

I felt myself still trembling with anger and indignation and embarrassment. Damn that elf, damn that elf, damn that elf! But, angry as I was, I was sensible enough to know that I should at least be able to move without trembling before beginning and I should certainly be able to think thoughts more complicated than 'damn that elf'.

Closing my eyes, sword in my hand, I breathed deeply and evenly as I had been taught, letting a mask of calm settle over me. My anger did not dim but it became compressed, focused, until it was merely another form of energy that I could draw upon. When I felt ready, I tensed my muscles and lunged forwards, my scimitar a streaking blade of light.

It was lunge, parry, duck, slash, whirl, block, stab, flip, dodge, strike, a stream of movement that never ceased as I flowed from one action to the next. My thoughts were entirely focused on my fighting, my anger and embarrassment forgotten as I worked with my scimitar.

I went through the entire fourth form, then the sixth, then the fifth. There were twelve forms of fighting in Harad, the twelfth being the most difficult. Each form was a routine of movements that forced the fighter to expend much energy and skill. No warrior had been able to complete the twelfth form in over a century.

My uncle had died trying to do so. On one of the flips, he'd gotten slightly unbalanced and had messed up his landing. He had landed directly on his scimitar, it piercing his belly. That had been without a partner and he had only been eight minutes into the form. The twelfth form was extremely long and eight minutes was barely through the beginning. No one had dared try since then.

I myself could complete the first nine forms- though I had dropped into a faint after saluting the first time that I had done it. For anyone the first nine was exceptional, for someone only 21 it was nearly impossible. I had been able to do the first eight by 19. It was only thanks to this skill that I was still free.

After my practice, I sat, scimitar across my lap, panting in the sand. I was sweating and I was filthy and my muscles were burning but my workout had served its purpose. I was no longer angry.

Now, as my sword lay across my palms, I thought of why I had been so angry. I had not been angry at the elf, I realised. Or at least, not too angry. On the contrary, I was grudgingly impressed with him. He had read me perfectly and had called my bluff- something that few others ever had done.

I was angry- furious- with myself. I was angry at my inability to kill him. I was angry at my weakness and failure, embarrassed that, even now, I couldn't do my duty. What was wrong with me when it came to this elf? Why was the thought of harm coming to him so difficult? Why could he anger me so easily?

There was something about him that was unlike any other man that I had ever known. For some reason, I did not think that it was wholly because he was an elf.

There was a different fire in him, the way that he argued and refused, always with that smile on his lips that somehow didn't seem mocking but honestly amused. No man had ever been capable of angering me so easily. This one seemed able to bring out my fire without even trying.

I remembered how he had called me his lady and I had wanted to draw my scimitar at once because it represented freedom and that was what the men had called _them_. The possessive _'__theirs'_ that meant that your body and life was no longer yours- that you belonged to them. 'My lady', he had said.

Westron was not my mother tongue and I had not known the proper definition of that phrase. It seemed that I had grievously misunderstood him and likely insulted him. Yet this strange man- elf- had not gotten angry but instead calmly reassured me as to what he meant! That had been lucky, for him, because my hand had been ready to draw my scimitar and from there it would not have been pretty.

Later, seemingly just to keep me confused, he had been ready to wait for his meal! He had been starving yet he had been ready to give up his meal for me! What king of fool offered food to a potential threat when they were starving? I knew several men who wouldn't offer food to a starving ally even when they were full! Particularly if that ally happened to be a woman!

Then, of all things, he had tried to apologize for insulting me! I had thrown my hands in the air, exclaiming over his actions and calling him several insults in Haradaic simply because it childishly made me feel better to do so. What in Arda was wrong with him? How could someone be so…so…oh, there weren't even any words to describe it!

After, he had refused to tell me why he was here and had managed to call out my bluff when I threatened to kill him! Even I had been unsure whether or not it was a bluff before being put on the spot like that. But the only thing that I had learned from him was his name and the fact that he was willing to die for his mission- whatever it was.

So I was angry that I couldn't kill him and embarrassed that he caught me out and called my bluff. For some reason, I was also afraid that he would judge me for my weakness- though why his opinion should matter whatsoever to me I couldn't say.

Frowning, I held my sword lightly, glancing at the blade that had flickered so easily across the empty desert, performing patterns that had long since been ingrained into muscle memory until I could practically do it with my eyes closed.

Why had I not been able to kill him, I wondered, dimly realizing that I was obsessing over it- then realizing that I didn't care if I was. It would have been so easy with him lying there, I knew nearly a dozen ways that I could have done it. I had killed before, several times, so it was not because I was unable to do so.

I had killed and nearly been killed, I had fought for my life and come face to face with death. I had felt that personal and bloody feeling of being a bringer of death, felt how it was both far too easy and unbelievably hard. I knew how to kill. So why hadn't I? The question was beginning to haunt me.

Was it because he had been lying there, unable to sit up? Was that why I had been unable to kill him, as I undoubtedly should have? Was it because he was helpless?

If that was the case, I wouldn't be quite so weak. I wouldn't have been unable to complete my duty. I wouldn't be an oath breaker, or a traitor, or a weak woman who was ruled by her emotions and unable to kill. I would be… honourable, yes. Honourable was good.

That must be why I couldn't do it, I realized with a giddy feeling of elation at having finally solved this mystifying riddle and realizing that I wasn't _quite_ lacking. I hadn't failed in my duty, I was merely waiting to see whether he would become a threat to Harad or not. That was almost certainly it!

I opened my eyes, smiling at the fact that it was so simple. _Of course_ I hadn't failed in my duty; I was merely waiting for him to be not quite so helpless so I could judge him fairly. That was it; I was being both fair and honourable. _Of course_ I was not weak, hadn't I proved that several times? I was strong and if he became a proper threat then I would kill him- of course. I was merely being wise and careful by waiting, after all, what if he proved to be a valuable ally?

Standing, I sheathed my sword and began making my way back to the cave. I ignored the little voice that said that my conclusion seemed to have some gaps in it and that fact that I had never shown much patience or wisdom, or caution before. I ignored the little voice that said that there must be another reason that I had spared him. The voice finally fell silent and I smiled, glad that I was sure in my reasoning once more.

(**Glorfindel's POV**) I watched quietly as she came back inside, no longer angry. Her robe was soaked in sweat and covered in a fine layer of dusty sand and her breath was somewhat heavy but she no longer looked like she was going to kill me which was a good thing. I appreciated being alive.

Without turning, she spoke, her voice neither soft nor harsh but neutral. "Sleep, elf of Imladris, and we will speak more on the morrow. I will stand watch", she said firmly in a tone that I had come to recognize as one where she would not change her mind.

"Very well", was all that I replied, my tone soft. But I watched as she stroked the fire and settled herself down, laying her sword across her lap. She took out a whetting stone and began sharpening the weapon with careful, controlled strokes. The fire illuminated her sharp features, softening them, and I watched as she concentrated hard on her work. She seemed to almost enjoy it.

The fire was not visible from outside and I knew that she would know of any danger long before it arrived. Relaxing my mind, I let my thoughts fade and the familiar sound of a sword being sharpened lulled me to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Here is chapter 6 where we can learn a bit more about Jakira's personality. I hope you all like her! I would like to say a big thank you to <em>EverleighBain<em>, _lotrlover16_ and _blackunicorne _for reviewing the last chapter. Your encouragement helps keep me going and I am glad to know that others enjoy and are reading the stories I write. This is by far the most ambitious of any of my projects to date so I enjoy any types of feedback. Please tell me what you liked about this chapter, what you disliked, what you are looking forwards to finding out about, what you suspect might happen, what you think of Glorfindel and what you think of Jakira. Or anything else that comes to mind! I hope that everyone is enjoying and I look forward to posting the next chapter! Thank you all for reading! **


	7. Chapter 6: To Leave and Travel

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><em>"The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step"<em>

-Morinehtar the Warrior

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

(**Glorfindel POV**) When I awoke, it was three hours before dawn and Jakira was crouched over me. The horse was loaded, the fire was out and the cave had been cleaned so that people would not be able to easily tell that anyone had been here.

"We are leaving, elf. I hope that you have enough strength gathered because you have no choice", her tone was firm and brokered no argument but I refused to leave it at that. I certainly did not remember making any plans and I'd like to know where we were going before leaving this cave that was the only safety the desert had offered me.

"Why am I coming with you", I asked with a slight smile, not protesting but honestly curious over why she would bring me with her.

"Because I do not trust you. I do not know your reason for being here and you will not regain your weapons until you have earned my trust", was her lightning quick retort.

I admired her confidence and determination. Quickly thinking it through, I decided to go along with it. The last couple of days had made it clear that I was in need of several lessons about this country if I wanted to survive. I also needed supplies and weapons, both of which she had. Really, this was nearly the best outcome I could have hoped for.

"As you wish", I said simply. "Where are we headed", I asked with a smile still playing at the corners of my mouth. Something about her seemed to amuse me; I could not put my finger on precisely what. She was definitely an interesting woman.

She hesitated but finally seemed to shrug to herself and realize that I could do very little with that information. "First, to get you some proper clothes and us both some more supplies. Next, I will seek out one of the 24 roaming tribes of Harad. After we go to the krigsherre".

I felt a jolt go through me at that last one, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for. Presumably, the krigsherre would be in his palace so she would be bringing me precisely where I needed to go.

"See if you can stand", she instructed firmly. I sat up then pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the pain that went racing through my body at the action. Upon my feet, the world spun and I needed the steadying hand that she provided. Closing my eyes, I ignored the pounding of my head and waited for the world to right itself. Her hand was my anchor until the world stopped spinning and I felt the strength in her arms as she bore my weight, slight though it was.

I opened my eyes and found her looking at me steadily, not a look of pity or judgement, just patience until I was ready to move. She did not doubt that I would be ready to move.

I stepped forwards, the world having mostly steadied and picked up my sleeping skin. Rolling it up, I tied it to her horses back and stepped out of the cave.

She was looking at me with a strange look on her face, the moonlight turning her eyes to obsidian. I wondered what was so interesting to her. Flashing her a slight grin, I stretched for the first time in days. She turned away, staring out beyond the cave into the unknown.

"It is still dark but we should not walk at noon when the sun is highest. You would not be able to manage". She said the last part with no pride or anger, simply stating a fact. I said nothing in return for it was true. At noon, I had often found myself starting to trip and slow when I was walking on my own. I did not doubt that she was able to push on even under the hottest sun.

Her arms were crossed protectively over her chest and she was surveying the desert- doubtlessly on the lookout for any signs of danger that I might miss. Yet, as she scanned the landscape with its dunes rising up as far as eyes could see and rocks extending far alongside the cave where we had passed the last few days, gradually her look changed.

It changed from one of caution to one of love and I could see in her gaze that she was proud of this land, that she wouldn't trade it and all of its harsh, fiery heat for somewhere as pleasant as Lothlórien. She loved this land as I loved Imladris, impossible though that seemed.

Without turning back, she grabbed her horse's reins and flicked them, leading him forwards. "Come", she said softly. "We have a long way to go".

I waited a second, glancing back at the cave which, to me represented safety. But then I realized that that safety was only an illusion, that it had only been safe because Jakira had been there…and now she was leaving. Taking a deep breath, I fixed my eyes on her and followed.

**(Jakira POV)** During the day the elf kept up remarkably well. The sand did not seem to sink or sift as much beneath him and most of the time he left no footprints. To anyone following us, most of the time it would appear that I was alone.

The sun glinted off of his golden hair as we walked and I found my eyes returning to it time and time again. I had never before seen anyone with light hair let alone hair that shone like gold as his did. The Rohirrim who were our enemies were said to have pale hair but nothing like this. His hair was certainly his most distinctive feature.

His skin had to have been aching and burning in the sunlight but he did not complain once, something that I could respect. He obviously realized that there was nothing I could do about that and decided not to plague me with complaints. This I appreciated!

At noon, I passed him some smoked meat and we each got to sip some water. As we relaxed, enjoying the little rest that we would get, golden hair sat up.

"Where are we going, Jakira of Harad", he asked me. Always so respectful, yet also always straight to the point. No ordinary, important Haradrim would have said something so blunt, there would have been flowery praise and a blessing that they didn't mean as well as subtle meaning worked into the phrase. Those from the higher classes in Harad all tended to speak like that, with but a few exceptions. I found that I didn't mind how golden hair spoke, it saved time.

I brushed some hair out of my face as I considered his question. Childishly, I didn't want to answer him, I wanted to show him how it felt like to have things hidden from him. But, somewhat regretfully, I abandoned that idea and instead replied, "we are going first to get you some proper clothes and some supplies. As I said before", I added pointedly.

Any normal man would have taken offence to that last part and challenged me in some (likely subtle) way so I could take out some of my frustration and retort. Or, at least, another man would have acted as if he had not heard the comment. This one just looked at me, lips twitching, with a damned glitter to his eyes that showed his amusement as openly as had he burst out laughing. I frowned; I did not like amusing him, particularly when it was entirely unintentional.

"Forgive me, my memory is usually better than this", he said smoothly. "I fear that I must plead ignorance, however, as to how we will locate that which you speak of in the middle of the desert. You did say that we were miles from any border", he reminded me.

"Aye", I replied, "but those wargs that attacked you had to have come from somewhere, likely a nearby camp for the supporters of the Shadow. Parts of his army camp all over the desert. We will find you some clothes and supplies there."

He stared at me in shock before saying, "Jakira, I cannot be taken by the army. I am no supporter of the Shadow". There was no trace of amusement to his features now, only deadly seriousness. His body was tensed, his eyes wary. This was not golden hair who seemed to find me amusing and who always seemed to have a smile playing at his lips and a light to his eyes, this was Glorfindel of Imladris, the elf, a dangerous warrior who was also a possible threat to Harad. I rolled my eyes at his words and reaction, unable to resist.

"Yes, I had guessed that when I noticed that the wargs were dead", was my dry answer. Honestly, did he think me stupid? Any servant of the Enemy would not only have left the wargs alive but also actually have some idea about how to properly survive in my country- not be found, mostly dead, by a wandering Haradrim who was far too curious for her own good. "Do not worry, we shall not get caught".

"Is there no nearby village that might have supplies", he asked. I could tell that he did not like the idea of approaching an enemy camp weakened as he was. I merely raised an eyebrow.

"Do you have any money or goods we could trade at such a village? Because I don't, and I doubt that they would give us what we need for free".

He stared at me in incomprehension. I sighed, unable to believe that he could possibly be so ignorant. Did he seriously know absolutely nothing about this country?

"Glorfindel of Imladris, most of the land where farmers and peasants live is in extreme poverty. Even the majority of the villages are pretty poor. People die every day of starvation, dehydration, exhaustion and sickness. In most villages, only those who send their sons to the army have a chance and the daughters are forced to marry early to produce more sons for the army.

"It is like this in most, not all, of the villages but I guarantee you that any village close to an army camp will be like this. They will not be willing to simply give us clothes and supplies and I have nothing to offer them in return. The peasants who do not live in the scattered villages are nomads. They tend to be unwelcoming, particularly in recent times".

He opened his mouth but before he could speak I said, eyes flashing, "I will not steal from them. They are Haradrim suffering. They are my people and there is no way that I would steal from them."

He nodded mildly then said, "that was not what I was about to suggest". He paused and I waited, somewhat ashamed of my outburst, for him to say what he had intended. "I was going to ask how we were going to get the supplies from the camp. They will not give them to us freely".

Baring my teeth in a feral grin, I said with a glint to my eyes, "we are going to steal them".

He stared at me in shock for a second then tipped back his head and laughed, the purest, most joy-filled laugh that I had ever heard. I remembered something that my friend had once said on the subject of elves, '_the elves feel emotion in a way that men do not, both the highest of highs and the lowest of lows is their blessing and curse. Their joy and love exceed that of any man but they can fade from sadness. Their anger can endure for millennia'. _Looking at this elf, I could believe it. The highest of highs was his birthright, but also the lowest of lows.

Slowly, he stopped laughing and turned to me, though his eyes were still glinting with mirth. Standing straight, he bowed dramatically low, saying, "If you wish to steal from the servants of the Dark Lord, then I am at your service, Jakira of Harad."

"Good", I responded, ignoring the hand that he had extended down to help me up. "Because I believe that I will need your assistance".

On we walked and I reflected on what I told him, all of it true. Villages were scattered, most around the nearest well or oasis, and they were mostly in extreme poverty, particularly those that were not within the boundaries of the lands belonging to the four noble families of Near Harad. The nomads also lived in extreme poverty, all of this brought on by the Enemy- not that most could see it.

"It wasn't always like this, you know", I found myself saying aloud, having not meant to say it but finding that now I had begun I wanted to continue. Golden hair paused, an eyebrow rising quizzically, an expression of curiosity and mild amusement on his face. The amusement likely came from the way that the words had burst from me, tearing from my mouth as if I needed to say them.

"Harad wasn't always like this. We were always darker than the West but once we followed the old rules. An injured would be rescued from the desert and taken in, the bond between host and guest was sacred.

"Blood still called for blood, and death for death, but we would also have been gifted with the supplies needed from the village as you had hoped. Honour meant everything, and while the nomads raided each other blood was rarely spilled. But all that has changed now. Harad is far darker and crueller under the Lord of Gifts", I said, spitting the name like a curse.

Golden hair nodded seriously as if he understood. As if he could possibly understand what it felt to listen to the old stories and be filled with awe by them, to know of the days when your country was a better, happier place. What it felt like as you looked at your country and loved it yet were filled with shame at what it had become. What it felt like to want to make your country better but to instead see it brought down from within because of the influence of something outside.

To see it brought down by the very people you were trying to save and help. To know that you would die for your country and you would fight for it but there was no real chance of saving it. He could not possibly know what that felt like.

He raised a hand as if to rest it on my shoulder in comfort but I flinched instinctively and he dropped it.

"Let us then pray that one day your country returns to how it was once. To that or better! May days of prosperity be a part of the future of Harad", he said softly. For some reason, even though he was a man (well, male) and a foreigner and possibly a threat to my country I felt that he meant those words and that, somehow, he might possibly understand.

"May it be so", I echoed, and exchanged a small smile with him. Then, abruptly, I realized that I was being far too trusting and open. Spinning, I focused again on the sand in front of us. But, though I tried to banish them, his words remained in my head… and his sincerity.

* * *

><p><strong>Here is chapter 7, I hope that you have all enjoyed. The quote at the beginning is by Lao Tzu. Thanks to <em>EverleighBain<em> and _HeWhoMustWrite_ for reviewing the story, reviews continue to encourage and uplift me as well as reassure me that people are reading and enjoying this. Seriously, please review and tell me what you have liked and disliked as well as how I can improve. If you have any thoughts on Jakira than I would love to hear them as she is, currently, my main OC in this story. I would really like to know what you think of her. Thank you for reading, reviewing, following or favouriting. Chapter eight will be coming soon, Samuel La Flame**


	8. Chapter 7: Plan of an Attack

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><em>"In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable,"<em>

-Nemyria, Warrior Queen and Sheik

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

It was two days before we came in sight of the army camp. In that time, I had learned nothing more about him except that he healed quickly and needed little sleep. He was a good travelling companion, of that there was no question, but I was still watching him closely. He was dangerous, that I knew.

The camp was a relatively small one with what seemed to be less than 1000 people. Golden hair had been able to see the camp long before I could and he described it to me. From his descriptions, the plan that I had begun forming two days ago solidified within my mind.

Running it through my head, I tore it apart and analysed every aspect of it, as I had been taught. In the end, I judged it cunning, daring and dangerous- but with a high chance of success. The two problems with it were that if we were caught we would be dead or worse and the fact that it would probably require gol- Glor- **_the elf!_**- gaining weapons. Which I said he could not until he told me why he was here so that I could trust him.

Frowning, I pondered this, trying to find a way to keep my word without losing my life and dooming my plan. Unfortunately, nothing came to me, unless he suddenly decided to break down and confess to me what I wanted explained. Experience told me that unless a miracle occurred this was not going to happen. Further experience told me that it was best that I not wait for a miracle.

Standing up, I began to pace, needing to find a solution to this problem. I remembered the words I had spoken, _until you gain my trust, you shall not regain your weapons_. I smiled, mentally thanking whichever power had reminded me of my exact words. He would not regain his weapons, that said nothing about mine.

I was sure that I could fight with his sword and he would manage with mine. Thinking of this, I watched as he rested, his entire body seeming at ease. Seeming at ease, because I knew that he could go from relaxed to tense in a second. For most, there existed a moment between recognition and reaction that a skilled warrior could take advantage of and use. For him, this moment seemed to be one and the same. I did not doubt that he was able to turn this to his advantage.

Quietly, I crossed over to Voronwë and took out golden hair's sword. Though I loved my scimitar, I had to admit that this was the finest sword I had ever laid eyes on. Holding it sheathed, I felt how heavy it was but ignored the small burn that was starting to build in my muscles from the effort of holding it straight in front.

Bringing it down from face level, I grasped the sheath and unsheathed the sword, hearing the rasp of metal on metal. But this blade neither slid out silently nor screeched, in fact, it almost seemed to _sing_. I nearly let out a gasp when I felt the sword unsheathed, it was so well balanced that it was nearly feather-light in my hands. Yet I could feel the weight and the power that would guide the strikes.

Raising it to face level, I observed that carved in the blade were a series of strange runes in another tongue. I thought that it was the elvish language but I could not be certain. I felt a brief flash of longing that my friends were not here, they would certainly be able to read it! But I pushed that longing back, knowing that had they been with me they would currently be dead.

Moving slightly away from the elf, I raised the sword and stared at the gleaming blade before trying the first strikes of the seventh form. The blade sliced cleanly through the air, quickly and with much control. I could change the direction of the blade easily and I knew that I would be able to stop a blow with a feather-light touch. I smiled, though not my scimitar, this would do very well.

Sheathing it, I put it away then strode over to wake up Glorfindel and speak to him about the circumstances. He looked pleased to know that he would have a weapon, less pleased that it would not be his. When he heard my complete plan he stared at me in shock. It seemed he didn't like it.

**(Glorfindel's POV) **I stared at her in frank shock as her words ran through my head. Not only was I not allowed to bear my own weapons in the coming conflict but I was also being told to follow her plan- a plan that required complete trust on my part!

Was she forgetting that not two seconds ago she had said that she could not trust me? Did she imagine that it was any easier for me to trust her? True, she had rescued me, but I still did not understand why she had done so and she could easily be a spy. I knew that she had not been completely honest with me. There were things that she had kept hidden, secrets that she had yet to reveal.

That was fine, I had not trusted her with everything and I had known her for only a short time. But her plan could prove to be a perfect way to bring me in without a struggle and I did not know whether I could risk trusting her.

Yet did I really have a choice? If she did belong to the Enemy then she currently held my weapons and obviously knew how to use them. Not as well as I- but I was still weak. If she was not the Enemy's then she could become his at any time. I had no doubt that turning in an elf would grant her a small fortune and people were poor. She had told me that much herself and the anger and sadness in her tone had not been faked.

My eyes hardened as I realized that I did not really have a choice. She was my only ally in this country, untrustworthy as she might be, and without her I would surely die. She was my only path to the krigsherre's palace and we did need supplies. I had no choice, I would have to trust her.

Her plan was certainly daring, that I could not deny. If nothing else, she had courage. Whether or not she belonged to the Enemy her plan was audacious, simple, and had a high chance of success. It was the type of plan I had taken part in many times before. Yet before it had always been with those I had trusted with my life and soul, this time there was an even higher element of risk…

She looked at me (obviously sensing my reluctance and indecision) and hesitantly touched my hand before jumping and yanking hers back as if she had been burned. I could not help turning my lips up the slightest bit at that, brave and fierce as she could be, she was also as skittish as a wild animal.

"Will you do it," she asked, her voice strong and direct, not revealing any of the hesitancy or nervousness that you might expect from her actions. I supposed that she must have much experience concealing her true feelings. The thought did not comfort me so I banished it, refusing to think on it until after her plan had been completed.

"I do not understand Haradaic," I warned her. She snorted and I sensed a sarcastic retort was on the tip of her tongue but she restrained herself. "You will not have to," she promised, her eyes already far away and, I sensed, analysing the plan once more, imagining it playing out. I pulled her away from such imaginings.

"Will they not find it strange that it's a woman bringing me in," I pointed out hesitantly, having already figured out that she was sensitive about her gender and how men judged her based on it. But this was a legitimate concern, and one that she had to consider.

"They would," she acknowledged, with a frown of distaste, "but I shall claim to be a member of the Rikajir. They take women".

I raised an eyebrow, taken aback once more by her daring. She certainly did not lack courage. The Rikajir were an assassin's guild, likely the greatest in Arda. They were loyal to no one but themselves and they would do much for money.

However they had also proved incorruptible and while they did do some jobs for Sauron they had also murdered three of his important generals and several of his officers. After, they had vanished into the desert so thoroughly that he had been unable to find them. His anger had been terrible but since then he had tried to keep them firmly on his side. Only the guild members knew if he were succeeding.

They would make an extremely powerful enemy but also a powerful ally. Perhaps meeting with them was part of my task in the South. However, they would be extremely displeased that someone had used their name and, knowing both their intelligence and how extensive their intelligence network was, they would probably be able to find out who it was. I hoped Jakira had a plan for that. For the moment, I nodded, accepting this idea.

Then, I turned to her and raised an eyebrow quizzically, the obvious question forming on my lips. "When do we go in? When do we attempt to borrow some supplies and proper clothing?" She was kind enough not to point out that it was only I who needed any such clothing.

Instead, she looked at me steadily and the look in her eyes promised me that I would not like her answer. I wondered when I had gotten so good at reading the eyes of a stranger. But hers were so expressive, revealing so much even when she tried to hide it. Her eyes, so dark with their flecks of gold, were fascinating to me. But I did not like what I was currently reading within them.

"I think we should go now. There is no point to waiting," she said quietly. That was true, I reflected. Each day we used more and more supplies, waiting would hinder us, not help. Looking at her, I wondered if I could trust her. But I had no choice, I realized as I had so many times before. My fate was in her hands, the rough, callused hands of a warrior that were hers. Besides, something made me want to trust her.

She was my only ally and hope of getting to the krigsherre's palace. She was my only hope of reaching the blue wizards. Looking at her, I nodded and extended my wrists in a gesture of submission and agreement. "Let's begin," was all that I said.

* * *

><p><strong>I know, I know, you all wanted to see the actual raid on the camp. Don't kill me! That is coming next chapter but I needed to separate it because it was far too long all together! In its entirety, from the beginning of this chapter to the end of the raid, the scene is 9936 words long. There was no way I could publish all that in one chapter! Besides that, this chapter was a great opportunity to see a bit more from Glorfindel's POV and to introduce a new element that will become important. The quote is by Dwight D. Eisenhower. <strong>

**As always, I would like to thank _EverleighBain_, _lotrlover16_, ****_blackunicorne_, _Caitydubbelyew_, and ****_Percabeth_ _Jackson_ for reviewing the last chapter! Please review this chapter and tell me what you liked as well as how I can improve. **Thank you for reading, reviewing, following or favouriting. The next chapter will be coming soon, hope you are all doing well and continuing to enjoy _Winds of Change_, Samuel La Flame****


	9. Chapter 8: To Enter a Camp

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

**(Glorfindel POV)** About half an hour later we were ready and so began one of the most daring missions I have ever taken part in. I was pretending to be a prisoner, Jakira my captor. Hopefully, the fact that I was an elf and that Jakira was pretending to be a member of the Rikajir would get us a meeting with the commander of this fortress. Or, at least, get us through the gates.

Jakira had pulled from her pack a black veil with small silver runes down the side of it and had, after hesitating, put it on. It covered most of her face, leaving only her eyes visible, and I knew from Elrond's speeches (which I had, regretfully, ignored in the past) that it was somewhat different than those worn ordinarily in Harad. The runes in particular interested me as the brief glance I had gotten of them suggested that they may be Tengwar of all things. But I had not gotten a very good glimpse of them.

Jakira was leading the horse and I was sitting, hands bound, on top of it, weaponless and trying to look somewhat scared and non-threatening. This was rather difficult seeing as I was far taller than any of the Haradrim could ever dream of being and, youthful though my face was, my body was that of a warrior. My hood was down, my ears clearly visible and my features showing no fear and only defiance. I was, however, nervous. There were a dozen ways that this could go wrong.

When we approached the gate and came within view of the guards I immediately fell back on my training and counted them, along with their weapons and the possible ways of escaping this camp after having entered. Of the last, it alarmingly appeared as if there was only one for the walls were tall and well-guarded, their only entry the gate. Jakira's eyes swept around, taking in the same information that mine had.

The gate itself was guarded by thirty men, all bristling with weapons and I tensed immediately. All of my instincts were screaming to get free of the rope, grab a weapon, and turn this horse around before we came into bow range.

Instead, I schooled my features and relaxed my muscles. Jakira's scimitar was within reach and ready for me should I need it. These bonds had been tied so that I could be out of them in seconds (I ignored the voice in the back of my mind telling me that seconds could be the difference between life and an unwanted trip back to Aman or, far worse, the Halls of Mandos).

But, nervous as I was, the threat of thirty human guards was not the worst that I had faced. Not by a long shot! I could kill all thirty easily. What I was worried about was Jakira. Losing her meant losing my only way into the krigsherre's palace. Losing her meant that I would have no foreseeable way of accomplishing my mission. Beyond that, the possibility that she would betray me was a constant worry.

I still did not understand why she had spared me or why she was going to all the trouble to get supplies for me. She had threatened to kill me and I had no doubt that she would carry that out should she decide that I was a threat to her or her country. Yet at the same time she was apparently willing to risk her life to get supplies and clothes for me. She was hiding something, of that I was sure.

What if she truly did work for them and was now only bringing me in for questioning? Doubts began to crowd my mind as I realised that I truly knew nothing about her except her name. The doubts were beginning to rise when I remembered the fear in her eyes when I had gripped her and the surprise and truth in them when I had asked for her name.

Watching her now I saw how tense she was and how her knuckles were white where they gripped the reins. I let out a quiet, almost inaudible, sigh. I would have to trust her. That, and pray. I decided to begin the latter immediately: **_Rávaníra, daughter of Manwë and Varda, if you have sent me here to get killed I will never speak to you again…_**

(**Jakira POV**) I was gripping the reins until they dug into my skin. The familiar weight and slight slapping of the sword against my side as I moved was comforting. It reminded me that I was not helpless and I was not alone and my tribe was _not_ going to spend the next few years wondering if I were dead or alive.

My tribe… my mind wandered to the ring around my neck, hanging from a leather chain and resting against my chest. If the servants of the Shadow found the ring it would mean my death. Death or capture and subsequent torture that would likely lead to death, after they had gotten the information they sought. I would prefer the fate of death than the horrors they could unleash upon me.

I glanced at the elf who was an exceedingly good actor, not that I would ever tell him so. In my experience, I had found that it was usually better to never praise men, particularly those that you knew very little. It got to their heads and encouraged them to behave badly. Not that the men of Harad usually needed such encouragement.

Golden hair was truly doing a great performance though. He appeared the perfect mix of scared, defiant and proud, exactly as you would expect an elf to appear. At the gate the guards demanded that I state my business.

Instantly, at the guards tone and unprofessional manner, I felt myself instinctively changing, drawing up and standing tall, letting a hint of danger creep into my stance. I was certainly not going to let myself be ordered about and pushed around like some common soldier!

When I spoke, I let the calm surety of one accustomed to command creep naturally into my voice. "I am escorting this wanted prisoner inside to speak with your commander, o guard of the camp," I said calmly in the manner of the Rikajir. The casual confidence and slight arrogance was theirs. The tilt of my head and warning in my stance was mine.

"You," one young soldier asked in disbelief. I was pretty sure he was younger than I was. "A woman," he laughed. "Woman are good for only one thing," he added, followed by a rather vulgar depiction of what exactly they were good for. Interesting, he did not recognize my veil. I would have to remember that. For the moment though…

Instantly, without so much as shifting, I flicked my wrist with practised ease- an ease I had once spent hours developing as I learned this move. But, now, that practice paid off as a long straight knife slid into my hand and settling there naturally as if it were merely an extension of my arm. A sharp, gleaming, deadly extension of my arm that captured their eyes from the instant it moved into sight.

"I am of the Rikajir, o reckless one who should learn the art of patience and the benefits of caution and wisdom," I said pleasantly, blade glinting in the sunlight. My eyes above my veil were sparking and there was a low warning to my tone, pleasant as it was. "Do you wish to test me, brave one who should learn the art of discretion," I asked, my body language, tone and eyes clearly saying that I would enjoy nothing more and little could amuse me more. The blade still resting in my hand emphasised that point. The guard swallowed nervously.

At that swallow, I smiled beneath my veil, enjoying the feeling of power that his fear brought me. I shouldn't, I knew. A good person wouldn't. But I had never claimed to be a good person and certainly hadn't been one for a long time. The other guards shifted nervously. Still smiling (though they couldn't see it), I put away the knife.

"Do you have a meeting with our esteemed commander, shadow of the desert and guardian of the sands," one of the older and certainly more senior guards asked. I was impressed by his knowledge of the titles and roles of a guild member. Here was one who held the proper respect for a guild member!

But I did not let the compliments affect me. I sighed heavily, making sure that it was audible to them and they could hear my annoyance. No one liked annoying the Rikajir. At their immediate flinch I almost, almost felt sorry for them. But not really.

"Do you think that I knew precisely when I would capture him or how long it would take to bring him here, soldier who seeks knowledge," I asked, arrogance and irritation evident in my tone. Before he could speak, I continued. "Of course I did not, you fool! Therefore, evidently, I have no meeting. However, I assumed that you would allow me to enter the camp so that I may speak with your commander and hand this prisoner over to him, this being the closest and largest camp in the area, loyal soldier."

The guard nodded quickly, agreeing with everything I had said, including the fact that he was a fool. I almost snorted at that but managed to restrain my impulses.

"Do you have any proof that you are who you claim to be, o esteemed warrior who is kind to endure our questioning," he asked. I forced myself to remain calm, speaking confidently and proudly, as if these guards were barely worth my attention. I also let the faintest hint of anger and indignation slide into my voice, as if I couldn't believe that a common soldier had the audacity to question me.

"Do you mean other than the fact that I am bringing in a wanted prisoner and am wearing the veil and carrying the knives of a guild member, o loyal guard," I asked sarcastically.

Darting a look at his partner, the guard nodded somewhat apologetically before saying firmly but after a hesitation, "yes, warrior from the desert."

"What would you like? A letter signed by the head of our guild, proclaiming me a member and stating my mission with a fancy seal to match?" I made sure that my sarcasm, disbelief and contempt were evidently displayed before adding, "is that what you seek, o presumptuous soldier?!"

"Actually," he began uncomfortably, darting another look at his fellow guards that seemed to beg for assistance. My eyes froze him in place, as did the tensing of my muscles and the way my hand drifted to the hilt of my (alright, golden hair's) sword.

When he opened his mouth to continue, I moved my hand away from the hilt and flicked my wrist, letting the knife slide easily into my hand once more. The clear tone of command fell effortlessly from my lips, my words falling like thunder in the deadly silence. They were not particularly loud but all the more dangerous for it, a final warning cloaked in velvet but backed up by a glinting blade.

"O presumptuous guards who dare question me, I am a guild member of the Rikajir and I have spent many valuable days tracking and capturing this elf. Elves do not make easy opponents, even weakened by the desert as this one was. Now, I come to bring him to the nearest army camp, as instructed, and I find myself insulted, questioned and denied entrance!

"If this elf escapes, people from very high up will be very displeased. The Lord of Gifts may want to question this elf himself and should this elf escape many people, including him, are going to be very angry and I shall not be to blame. It shall be your shoulders that the blame falls upon!

"Furthermore, I refuse to track and capture this elf again, wasting more of my time, should he escape. Instead, you may do so. Assuming, of course, that you are still alive after insulting one of the Rikajir, denying them access and, therefore, allowing a dangerous, wanted prisoner escape. I would not bet on it but if, by some miracle, you are then I hope you enjoy trying to track this elf then risking your life recapturing him.

"My patience is now growing rather thin. Will you allow me to enter this camp so that I may deliver this elf to your commander or will I have to explain to the head of the guild that common soldiers have forgotten their place and therefore need a reminder on why the Rikajir is to be feared?"

At that speech, particularly the last part, all the soldiers paled, especially the one that had insulted me in the beginning. This time, there was no hesitation as they stepped aside and ordered the way open, letting the gate swing open.

"Forgive us, o great one who carries all of our lives in her hands. We did not mean to offend or detain you," the older guard said.

I pulled Voronwë forwards yet as men moved to follow me I twirled around. "I hold your deaths within my hands, not your lives," I corrected sweetly, smiling fiercely beneath my veil, eyes flashing above it. "And I require no escort from fools who should know to hold their positions at the gate," I snapped.

"O wise one, what about the prisoner," the guard protested weakly. "He has had several opportunities to escape and will be within camp in any event," I said firmly.

They jumped back to their positions and I continued moving forwards until I was in the camp and out of view. I looked around, taking in all the details I could with as much discretion as possible.

It was an army camp that looked disturbingly permanent with barracks, a stable, a well and what I presumed to be the command center and infirmary. In a nearby field, within the walls, soldiers were performing drills and training, watched over by a drill sergeant.

Inwardly, I heaved a sigh of relief over the fact that no one had noticed our arrival, though outwardly I ensured that I displayed only confidence that my plan was going to succeed. Golden hair didn't need to know exactly how risky it was…

Tossing him a look, I said quietly in Westron, "Pull up the hood to hide your ridiculous hair and ears. Do not say a word and try not to look anyone in the eyes. Keep your wrists concealed but bound- just in case." In case things go horribly wrong, I said in my head.

Golden hair said nothing, obeying my every order to the letter and concealing himself well within the hood. But, as I stared at him, I heaved another inner sigh. For his skin was still far too pale, what little was visible, and he towered above everyone else, even on horseback. I was considered extremely tall for a Haradrim, a race of men. Elves were said to be taller than men and he must have been considered tall for an elf.

Besides that, there seemed to be some sort of light surrounding him- but not one you could see. This was a light that I could feel. It was pure and beautiful yet entirely masculine and, to me, it was completely and utterly evident. But there was nothing I could do about it. At least his hair was covered- that would need to be cut sometime soon!

Stepping out confidently, no longer leading Voronwë who the elf guided with his knees (if nothing else he was a very gifted rider) I made for the well. Restocking on water was definitely a priority and currently our most pressing concern.

Approaching the well I felt extremely conspicuous and as if the elf would attract guards who would surely discover our ruse. But people barely gazed at the elf, concealed as he was beneath his hood. Instead, it was I who was attracting the glances, being a woman.

But, as soon as they saw my veil, pieces fell into place and I could see the mix of awe and terror fill their eyes. "Rikajir," was murmured, falling quietly from lips as if it was a secret, and eyes slid away from me out of respect and fear.

Taking the waterskins that golden hair handed me, I quickly filled them before also grabbing the four full ones that were lying beside the well. Some soldier would doubtlessly be in trouble for that but, sadly for the soldier, that was not my problem.

_Forgive me_, I added mentally to the heavens, apologizing for that sin and wondering if anyone was listening.

After refilling the waterskins I led Voronwë over to the command centre, leaving him outside beside another horse, commanded to stay. I knew that once he had been commanded to do so he would obey, unless I called him. The other horse was very fine and I paused a second to wonder to whom it could belong. Then, unable to think of an answer, I tossed that thought from my head, grabbed golden hair and dragged him down, feeling a small amount of admiration when he didn't fall, just stumbled.

He sent me a glare that I sensed was only half serious but said nothing. I was filled with the absurd desire to stick my tongue out at him, an urge I hurriedly banished. What in Arda did this elf do to make me feel this way?

Gripping tightly onto golden hair's arm (just in case we were caught and had to play captor and prisoner) I led him into the building. Inside, the walls pressed into me and I paused, unsure of where to go.

"Where is the infirmary," I hissed quietly in Westron, hoping that golden hair would be able to hear. He must have been because without hesitation he pointed down one narrow hallway. I frowned, the hallway looked identical to every other option surrounding us and I was unsure as to how he would know where to go. My question had been asked mostly out of reflex.

Catching my frown, he said quietly, "the smells of blood and herbs are coming from that direction and from here I can also hear moans and the sounds of disturbed rest."

My eyes widened and I had to keep myself from flinching. My friend had told me about elves and how their senses were better than those of Men but hearing about it and experiencing it were two different things. However, despite my shock, I said nothing aloud.

At least one spare pair of clothing would logically be found near the infirmary and if I could get my hands on some herbs than it would be wonderful.

Carefully, we set out, cautiously because there really was no good reason to bring a prisoner down to the infirmary. If caught, I would have to claim to be lost and such rarely worked as a decent excuse- even when it was true.

Once we reached the infirmary I smiled at the two large boxes outside it. One was dirty clothes and the other was clean. Both were piled high and I got the feeling that everyone in the camp used those two piles.

"Keep your ears open for any one coming," I warned the elf before pouncing on the piles. There were no woman robes (not that I wanted any) and no veils but there were several robes in silk, cotton and wool that might fit me.

Male desert robes are long, flowing tunics that fit loosely and reach about the ankle. There is also a sleeveless cloak and the headcloth, called the keffiyeh. The woman's clothes were similar but the robes were far thicker and usually of a darker colour. In addition, they wore no keffiyeh but veils and were required to cover their hair. I loathed the constrained movement and the feeling of weakness that those clothes brought me.

Tearing through the clothes, I found the largest robes in the pile which were of silk and quickly located another set of the same size in cotton. These I passed quickly to golden hair. Mouthing a quick thank you, he shoved them roughly into the bag that we had brought for this exact purpose.

Once that was done, I peeked into the infirmary and saw several healers, all of them tending patients, and not a guard in sight. Leading golden hair inside, I suddenly saw the table with herbs lain upon it that was sitting in the corner with no one guarding it. As quietly as possible, I made my way over.

I was no healer but my friend had insisted upon me learning the basics of healing and I easily recognized all of these plants. Grabbing up generous portions of the rarer ones and ignoring those that I could easily locate myself in the desert, I sealed them in the bag. Then, silently, I crept out of the ward, the healers having never noticed my presence.

Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I gripped golden hair's arm and hissed, "Kitchens," because to gather the necessary provisions we would undoubtedly need to go to the kitchens. Cocking his head, the elf thought a moment, straining his senses, before nodding towards one of the hallways to our left. Sighing inwardly, I began walking, my hands growing sweaty and my muscles taut with nerves. If we were caught… I didn't even want to imagine the consequences.

We were very near the kitchens (even I could now sense we were going the right way as I could both smell and hear what must be the kitchens) when golden hair suddenly stopped. An expression of desperation and anxiety was suddenly written across his face as he glanced around. That was a mix that I did not like.

I looked at him worriedly, some instinct prompting me not to speak aloud. My eyes told him what my voice could not: that I was wondering what in Arda was wrong. Leaning close he whispered to me, his voice so quiet I could barely make out the words. "I hear footsteps. Two people are coming, and one sounds like someone important. You may not be able to fool them."

My heart was pounding in my chest, adrenaline flowing through my veins and filling me with the desperate longing to fight. I wanted to run and unsheathe my sword and let the simplicity of a fight overwhelm me. But we were outnumbered by odds of over 100/1 and we desperately needed supplies so I contained that urge.

We were in a very narrow hallway that had not connected to another for a few minutes. There was a turn up ahead but the rest was straight and people would certainly hear and investigate running footsteps. A single look confirmed what I already knew: there was only one door along this hallway.

Without hesitation, we darted towards it and tested the handle. It was locked and for a second I felt fear rise up inside me and rob me briefly of my sense. Then, with a great effort of will, I forced it down and flicked my knife into my hands.

I pressed the tip of the blade into the lock and tried to pick it but my hands were shaking. Glorfindel laid his bound hands on my shoulder and I took a deep breath, steadying my hands. Then, quickly, I jiggled the knife around in the lock until, finally, it popped open.

Sheathing my knife, we rushed in, shutting the door quietly behind us. If that was someone important behind us then we could be in trouble. They could take 'the prisoner' away for questioning, or decide to lock him up, or find some fault in my story, or do any manner of things which would end badly for us. If at all possible, I still hoped to slip away without anyone finding out that we had been there until we were long gone. A few words to the guards at the gate would likely ensure their silence!

But the footsteps continued until even I could hear them, two pairs, exactly as Glorfindel had said. _Please pass, please pass, please pass_, I prayed. If anyone was listening then they evidently chose to ignore me because the footsteps slowed then halted in front of the doorway and voices came.

"This is my office," said a smooth voice, calm and deep and undoubtedly male, possessing some arrogance but also the faintest hint of nervousness. "We can conduct our business in here, if it suits you, o strong and valued friend." The compliment at the end did not sound sincere but rather forced.

"As you will, sir. I pray that this room will be more accommodating than the last." This voice was lighter than the other but with a deadlier edge to it. Yet within it I could also hear traces of amusement buried subtly. Strangely, it seemed almost feminine, impossible though that was. It seemed vaguely familiar but I could not place it.

Whoever it was, the person was obviously important. Ignoring the niceties of speech could be taken as an insult- not to mention the words which were toeing the line of antagonistic without ever crossing. The tone was pleasant.

I felt a slight bit of appreciation for whoever had spoken. They had insulted with such skill that the one being insulted doubtlessly knew it but there wasn't enough of an insult there for him to properly take offence unless the person were less powerful than he. Judging by the way the conversation was going so far, I doubted that.

The handle turned and the door to the office opened. I took a deep breath and summoned my best acting. I knew that I had to banish all doubts and give the performance of my life- for my life may well hinge upon it.

* * *

><p><strong>Here is the (slightly delayed) chapter nine! Sorry for the wait, life has been busy and in all the chaos I forgot that I hadn't actually posted the chapter when I had been intending to, on Saturday... oops! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this and I would like to thank <em>lotrlover16 <em>****and ****_blackunicorne_ for reviewing the last chapter, their encouragement was appreciated! This chapter, please tell me what you thought of Jakira's thoughts (and Glorfindel's, if you wish, though he didn't have as much time as Jakira did to share his thoughts) and what you think of her character. Please also tell me what you think of her past so I can see if I've been leading you all in the right direction or if you're stumbling around in the dark and I ought to give you more to work with. The Rikajir are an important new element and we will be seeing a lot more of them soon. Seeing as this chapter is late, here's the deal: I will work super hard to get the next one up soon and it will be up either after I have gotten 5 or more reviews (as in, the day of, and the reviews seriously only have to a few words long, a few suggestions for improvement ect- though I do love long reviews!) or I will post the next chapter in a week as usual. Your choice! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, thank you for reading, reviewing, following or favouriting,**

**Samuel La Flame**


	10. Chapter 9: A Game of Wits and Politics

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><em>"Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception" <em>

-Anjana, First Bloodrider of the krigsherre

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

(**Jakira POV**) When I saw who was at the door I wanted to scream because with that uniform and the embroidery and stripes upon the robes there was no doubt that I was facing the commander of the fort. Instead of screaming, I unsheathed a knife and placed it under Glorfindel's chin, so quickly that the commander would think it had always been there.

Then, after he took in our presence, before he could speak a word, I spoke, weaving a web of lies as I had so many times before.

"At last! What in Arda took you so long", I demanded in Haradaic, trying to make my tone sound like a mixture of relief and irritation. I was unsure whether I had succeeded but I must have managed passably for he did not look unduly suspicious immediately.

"What do you mean, o stranger who comes without warning", the commander asked, obviously taken aback at having his office occupied by someone else and then being questioned by a stranger. I looked at him piercingly, my mind working quickly as I sought to discover all I could about him.

Taking in his robes, fear, quick and smooth speech and gleaming but more decorative sword, I was able to figure out a few things about him. He was a decent commander but would have risen through the ranks by virtue of intelligence and cunning- not fighting capabilities. He seemed to enjoy his comforts. He showed fear so he must never have been in the back-stabbing capital or before the Lord of Gifts. He would also likely respond well to flattery. I could use all these points to my advantage.

"I told the incompetent guard that I had a high security prisoner and that I must speak to you at once! He sent me to this office and promised that you would be here soon. I have been waiting for nearly a quarter-hour!"

The last part was somewhat of a gamble but it added authenticity to my story and he had been giving the other speaker (who I could not see) a tour so he must have been gone from the office for at least a little while as they saw the less accommodating room that the other speaker had mentioned.

"I see", he said. "When I find out which guard it was the situation will be addressed. I suppose this is your prisoner, o insulted but still valued guest", he continued. Yes, he had definitely gained his position by praising those in power.

I felt my lip curving into a sneer. He cared nothing for the Shadow, nor did he care for the krigsherre, nor did he care for the Resistance. He cared only for himself and therefore could be bought. Though I disrespected him for it, I made note of it. Who knew when such information could help? Could be bought likely meant could be threatened and bullied as well. He was evidently faithless (or so he seemed, and I was usually an accurate judge of character) but perhaps not useless.

"Yes, o generous and insightful commander", I replied to his question, showing him none of my private thoughts and shoving Glorfindel roughly forwards as expected. I felt a flash of sympathy for him.

He was a trained warrior and he stood now with my knife at his throat, surrounded by what must seem to be enemies, and he couldn't even understand the words we were speaking. For all he knew I could have just betrayed him and joined with my countryman. He had only my words to assure him we were truly allies. I became abruptly glad that I had this part to play in this charade. Now, hopefully, I would be able to get us out of this situation alive.

Knowing it was necessary, I flipped down his hood, revealing the elf's distinctive hair and ears. "Why, that is an elf", the commander said in clear shock, taken aback by how dangerous this 'prisoner' was.

I looked at him lazily and somewhat scornfully. "Obviously", I replied. "Did you perhaps mistake him for a dwarf, o observational and deductive commander", I asked, amusing myself by deliberately baiting him.

The man flushed but I did nothing but raise an eyebrow. This was the exact reaction that anyone would expect from a member of the Rikajir. Relaxed, almost lazy, but ready to react in an instant and in complete control over the situation. Also slightly arrogantly, as if you were entertaining them.

"In my experience, I have found that dwarves are generally somewhat smaller", I added, enjoying myself for the first time.

"I know", he replied in a clipped tone, choosing to add no compliment to the end of this. Well used to the game of politics, I simply flicked my fingers the slightest way, as if I had taken offence and was considering doing something about it.

Immediately, he added in a conciliatory tone, "Though I have doubtlessly travelled less than you, o wise one, I have met dwarves in the past".

Before I could comment on the unlikelihood of this (which was extremely high) or ask for details, he added, "I have heard that it is nearly impossible to catch elves. They are supposed to be extremely dangerous, o brave one".

"They are", I replied calmly, unruffled and undisturbed, looking almost serene as I held a knife to an elf's throat and engaged in an exchange of power and mild politics with the commander. "That is why I was sent", I added, loving the impact those words had upon him.

I knew the game of politics and implications better than most and, though evidently good, this commander was too inexperienced on a large scale to pose a threat to me. I doubted he had ever played the game when his life and future or that of others was on the line. He played for ambition but that was not enough when faced with one who had once played for survival.

I knew that the few words I had just uttered had reinforced the idea introduced by the veil that I was a member of the Rikajir. I had implied that this mission and prisoner was so important that the Rikajir had sent someone. It implied that I was one of the best (and most dangerous) of the Rikajir. Finally, it implied to him that not only was I one of the most talented of the Rikajir but also that I was more dangerous than an elf- which I, of course, was not. But it was what he thought that mattered.

He straightened at once and said much more respectfully, "whom do I have the honour of addressing, o beautiful and deadly warrior?"

"The Rikajir, o commander of a great camp", I replied, applying just enough flattery not to give insult. Now, more than ever, I envied golden hair's speech and language. Such flattery was not expected where he was from and times were not wasted saying things that were, no doubt, not meant.

I thought that I had spoken well but I knew that I had said something wrong from his reaction. His eyes narrowed and his face closed. Something had made him suspicious but I could not think of what. Did I, perhaps, give too much flattery? But no, I had been barely civil!

"Might I know who among the Rikajir I have the honour of addressing so that I may send back a report earned by your performances? The correspondence between us has ever been strictly confidential so do not fear for your privacy, dangerous daughter of the desert", he said slowly and carefully.

I wanted to scream, I had had no clue that this camp made frequent contact with the Rikajir and might even recognize the names of proper guild members. There weren't that many who were skilled enough to be sent after elves. He had also neatly trapped me into being forced to give up a name. When my friend heard this tale (and, knowing him, he would hear of it, either from me or someone else) he would, no doubt, be extremely disappointed that I had left a window like that open. I was evidently out of practice in the politics he had tried so hard to teach me.

Not able to risk that he might recognize the name of a true guild member from a false one, I said the first one that popped into my head.

"You have the honour of speaking to Fariza of the Rikajir, o master of the army". But even before I had finished speaking I had let my spare hand drift down to the hilt of Glorfindel's sword which hung at my waist. I had said something wrong, I was sure of it.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright then, mild cliffie! This cliffhanger is an incentive for you to please review this chapter! But before we get into the begging, I shall thoroughly thank <em>blackunicorne<em>, _EverleighBain_ and _Guest_ for reviewing the last chapter. Your reviews continue to help me improve as a writer, encourage me and motivate me to write quicker! Thank you all for your reviews! Guest, I'm glad you like the story and Jakira! Now has come the time to beg reviews: please guys, if you read this review. A few words take only a few seconds to write yet mean so much to the author receiving them. I would really appreciate knowing what you think of my writing and characters and how I could improve. Now I'll extend yet another thank you to _blackunicorne_ and _EverleighBain_ because they have been amazing and I am immensely thankful for them and their support. So, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and are looking forwards to the next. Thank you everyone who has read, reviewed, followed or favourited this story. Have a great week (or less, I can be bribed into posting sooner by reviews :) ),**

**Samuel La Flame**

**P.S. Anyone else going to buy the extended edition of Desolation of Smaug? **

**The quote at the beginning was by Niccolò Machiavelli.**


	11. Chapter 10: To Fight and To Flee

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

(**Jakira POV**) The commander's body was tensed, his eyes flashed with triumph and fear, he opened his mouth to scream, his fingers closing over the hilt of his scimitar. I removed my knife from Glorfindel's throat but I knew that I was moving too slowly.

He screamed, alerting every waiting guard within earshot that something was wrong. Then, as I tried to move past Glorfindel, he struggled to quickly remove his scimitar from the scabbard and I knew that had he been experienced I would have been dead because I had been too slow in unsheathing Glorfindel's sword.

Then, quite suddenly, just as he was about to lunge towards us, he crumpled, his legs collapsing underneath him and his head falling forwards. Behind him was visible another black clad figure in a veil with small silver runes. There was a heavy knife in the figure's hand which was casually raised and it was obviously the reason the commander had crumpled. Having been apparently struck with the hilt, he was unconscious, not dead.

Beside me, Glorfindel had broken free of his bonds and now held my scimitar in his hands. His reflexes were truly astonishing. He glanced at me and I could see the slightly wild look in his eyes. Yes, for him to remain bound, with a knife to his throat, as we had spoken in a language he did not understand was asking a lot. His courage through the last couple minutes was incredible. I knew that I wouldn't have been able to remain in such circumstances for so long.

I raised my blade warily, unsure of this turn of events. Was this a friend or a foe? Did such a distinction even apply to me anymore?

The figure laughed softly and I realised suddenly that this was the other person that the commander had been speaking to. The one who had sounded almost feminine.

"You were doing so well before then," the voice said, vaguely mockingly. "But using my name was your fatal mistake, my friend," she continued.

"Fariza," I asked, unable to believe it. In answer she flipped up her veil, revealing the sharp, chiselled features of the friend I knew. My heart became lighter as I realized that I did still have friends and allies. These last few weeks I had unsurprisingly forgotten that.

Realizing that Glorfindel still didn't know what we were saying, I made to speak but she beat me to it. "We should speak only in Westron, Jakira. In this way the soldiers that are surely on our way here will not understand and your elf shall not kill me."

The words were spoken lightly but Fariza wasn't one to exaggerate. If she said that Glorfindel was able to kill her than he must be. Inwardly, I reflected on how lucky it was that she was one of the few people that called me Jakira.

"He's not my elf," I protested instead, quickly. I was not having her jump to one of her crazy conclusions about us, I swore. Particularly as Fariza's conclusions were formed by one who had excellent observation skills and incredible instincts which meant that she was rarely wrong. Even her strangest predictions were usually right. Some thought she had a touch of foresight.

She smirked at my answer, her expression holding all of its usual casual confidence and the teasing 'I know something you don't' look. She was infuriating, truly. Which is, of course, why despite the fact that we were vastly outnumbered, we'd lost our advantage of surprise, we didn't have all our supplies and we would likely be fighting for our lives in a few seconds I felt my lips twitching into the smallest possible smile. It was a grin, really. Reminiscent of that which I had used to send Fariza after we had engaged in some childish folly.

"Come on," she said briskly, carefully replacing her veil. "How are we leaving," I asked in confusion because I knew that our actions could have great consequences in the future. We had no time to sneak out and should she leave with us and fight beside us it could affect the Rikajir. Fariza's plan was simple and, hopefully, effective.

"You and the elf will flee and fight your way out while I appear to chase you." "We need supplies," I protested, knowing that we would not get far without them. Fariza shook her head impatiently, checking her weapons which I knew included poison.

"You may find some," she responded, "but not here. All you will find here is death." As I hesitated Glorfindel nudged me, "they are coming," he warned, his voice calm but his hand closed firmly over my scimitar.

"Go," Fariza said firmly and my mind remembered countless times obeying that voice so I did.

We sprinted through the hallways which suddenly seemed full of people but Glorfindel was cloaked once more and I looked like a guild member so no one tried to stop us, yet.

"What happened? Where are you going? Why did the commander shout? Where is the threat?" Voices called out to us in Haradaic and I was about to answer when Fariza appeared beside the commander (who had, apparently, regained consciousness, pity). Looking around and spotting us, the commander started yelling.

Then, alarms started and they were calling for reinforcements and about halfway to the exit we began fighting, enemies pressing in on all sides. From the corner of my eye, I watched as Glorfindel fought. Though it was clear to me that his side was paining him slightly I couldn't help but be in awe of his prowess.

He possessed a grace and speed that men could only envy and my scimitar seemed to be nothing more than a beautiful, deadly extension of his arm. His moves were instinct honed by years of practice into deadly skill that now came with an effortless execution. He did not have to think as he fought; only react in ways that had been long since ingrained into his muscle memory.

But though his moves were filled with a fierce beauty and a wild freedom, they were not the elvish savagery that my friend had told me elves could reach in the midst of battle. He was not lost in the glory of battle nor did wrath shine brightly upon his face. His strength and skill were evident but he did not fight ruthlessly nor mercilessly. There was only one explanation: he was holding back.

He fought through the men easily but he did not kill. He never had to kill. Instead he injured and knocked out, dodged blows and disarmed. Most surprisingly, he laughed, a high laugh that was full of the battle high, exhilaration, fury and adrenaline that he was trying to repress. But I did not have a long time to consider it because I had my own foes to fight.

The clash of blades and dance of death was one I knew very well and I, unlike Glorfindel, did not hesitate to take lives. They were threatening me and fully prepared to kill me, I merely responded in kind. Two of the enemy converged on me at the same time and beneath my veil I growled. While Glorfindel was obviously taking care to stay in full control I was letting instinct and adrenaline rise and allowing my reflexes to take over as the battle fury swept over me in a wave of power.

It was as if I was burning as I fought, my face etched into an expression of fury and satisfaction and ancient pleasure at the besting of my foes. The floor ran with blood and my veil whipped my cheeks as I whirled and the robes snapped around my legs. Moments flew past but I saw everything clearly, each detail making its way to my mind and being absorbed so that I could use the knowledge as I fought.

I could not imagine the strength that it must have taken Glorfindel to hold these feelings back and to not sink into this state. I had been fighting in this state since I was a child of only ten years and ever since that first, glorious time I always used it when I fought. Because these feeling swept back any sense of fear or remorse and allowed me to fight unhindered by exhaustion or wounds. They sent me soaring along a path of instincts and reactions that could help keep me alive and was addicting in its power. I was not a good person, I knew, but I could forget that when I was in this state.

Now, as two advanced on me, I snarled before ducking the first strike and sending a vicious kick into the thigh of the one approaching from behind. As I had expected, he was completely unprepared for it and therefore unable to consider blocking. So few warriors knew how to employ any weapon except that in their hands during a fight. But feet could also be an instrument of death and I had been taught by my friend who insisted that I learn how to properly fight. Such lessons served me well now.

The one behind me crumpled, his legs giving out, and I sliced the neck of the one in front of me. Blood spurted and sprayed and splattered my robes as I spun around to drive Glorfindel's sword through the mail plate of the one behind me. Usually, I would not dare to try and thrust through mail plate in fear of breaking my scimitar but the sword I was now bearing was so sharp that it slid through easily, as if the mail was made of butter. I smiled viciously in triumph, looking around for my next opponent.

"Keep moving," Glorfindel ordered, his voice cutting above the sounds of battle with ease, the ring of command coming naturally. His eyes held none of the laughter of before and there was an aura of light and power that was surrounding him. He was fey and fell and dangerous in a beautiful, deadly way. This was not golden hair, this was Glorfindel of Imladris.

There was no joy on his face nor amusement in his gaze and his hair lashed his face with every swift movement, gleaming in the torchlight like true gold. His eyes were blue as the sea but now also as perilous as it. He was the elven warrior who had fought battles for longer than my father had been alive and the potential threat to my country. It was becoming blaringly obvious that had he wanted me dead than I would be. He would make a fearsome enemy.

Fariza ran after us, appearing to chase us but in reality assisting us in our escape. About 50m from the door I suddenly wished desperately that I had my scimitar. Glorfindel's sword was beautiful, razor sharp and deadly but I was unaccustomed to it. Its reach was farther than I was used to, it weighed more and its balance was different. All this was beginning to affect my fighting and I was tiring quicker than usual, my muscles working more. Suddenly, my wrist burned white hot and I gasped from the unexpected pain.

Glorfindel turned instinctually towards the sound but he was too late, the scimitar was already coming scything down towards me. Wincing, I struggled to raise Glorfindel's too-heavy sword in a parry but before it hit me the wielder of it fell sideways, crumpling, his fingers grasping weakly at the knife which had just become lodged in his side. Thank the Valar for Fariza's keen eyes and quick knives!

"Go. I'll cover the gate but you must flee. Ride," Glorfindel insisted, still burning with that inner fire. The fire must have consumed my brains because, for no conceivable reason, I obeyed.

I watched as he sprinted towards the gate and took down the first two guards, neither of them lasting more than an instant. The next three were knocked unconscious as well and suddenly the gate was free and Glorfindel was swinging it open because the others had fled... But behind us ran reinforcements who spilled out of the command centre and came running from the drills, all full of wrath and fury and all who wanted to catch us, torture us, kill us.

Then I was upon Voronwë and galloping towards the gates, my arms and legs and voice urging him on as Voronwë's hooves pounded against the sand and sent particles of it flying in every which way. I heard someone call for archers and another call for horses as I bent low over Voronwë's neck in the hopes of avoiding being shot.

Suddenly Glorfindel sheathed my scimitar and raised his hand, looking at me desperately in the hopes I would understand. Acting on instinct, I grabbed his hand as I galloped by and he jumped, using the tug of my hand to help anchor him as he twisted around and landed behind me in the saddle, somewhat on top of our meagre supplies. The landing cannot have been too comfortable because he grunted but then he pressed his body close to mine and murmured a few words in a beautiful tongue to urge Voronwë onwards.

* * *

><p><strong>Well hello! Happy Remembrance Day to those who celebrate it today (well, not happy precisely but I'm going to assume you know what I mean) and I hope that all of those who don't are still having a good day. Here is, as you must have figured out, the next chapter which I hope you have enjoyed. The ending is a little abrupt, I know, but unfortunately I could think of no better way to end it. I would like to extend a huge thank you to <em>Queen Apolline<em>, _LathTheHunter_, _blackunicorne _and _Writer of the North _for the wonderful reviews I received. They truly made my day and were great for both encouragement and motivation when struggling to write this chapter. Please, those of you who bother to read this, write me a quick review. Just a few words really does mean a lot as this is my first serious fic. Write to me on whether or not you like my interpretation of Glorfindel, whether or not you are starting to form ideas and opinions of Jakira, what you think of Fariza and the mysterious Rikajir, and, in general, what you think of my story. Really, anything you want to write I would be glad to read as I enjoy receiving all reviews, long or short. As if has been for the past two chapters, if I get five reviews, of any length, than I will update sooner. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, favouriting or following my story, have a great week,**

**Samuel La Flame**


	12. Chapter 11: Debate with an Elf

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

Then we were through the gates and my scimitar was digging into my back and the elf's arm was around my waist… I wanted to drive my elbow into his nose, or unsheathe my dagger and prick his side or whirl and throw him from Voronwë. But I did not.

Instead, I pushed down those instincts and reminded myself sternly that I was in charge here, I was the one with the power. I was not vulnerable, nor was I weak and I was the one in control. But, by the Valar, it was hard to remember that when instead the sight of Glorfindel fighting filled my mind.

I had known he was a warrior and I had known that he was a good one by the wounds on the wargs but never had I imagined that he was as good as I had seen. Had I not watched him fight with my own eyes than I would never had believed his capabilities. Even my friend, the one who had taught me to fight and was the greatest warrior I knew, might have been challenged by the skill of Glorfindel. What was more, I had sensed that he had been holding something back!

Though we were now galloping across the open desert, the harsh sun burning our backs, I shivered as reality hit me. I was not in control anymore. I might have been when Glorfindel was wounded but I was not anymore.

I reached up with the hand that was clutching the reins and ripped the veil from my face, shoving it into my robes. The veil reminded me that I was a woman and I could not stand that reminder now, could not think on that weakness.

I forced myself to take calm, deep breaths. We were fleeing from an army camp and I absolutely could not lose my control. I hated feeling weak and I hated feeling trapped but with his arm around my waist and the realization that he was stronger than me I was beginning to feel afraid. _I hated feeling afraid!_

What if he tried to claim me, to take me, to force me as so many men had forced their women? Usually I would fight but I knew now that he would undoubtedly win.

Glorfindel's arm shifted and my body was tense for now, to me, he was a threat and I wish that I had killed him when I could have, when he had been weak… He had been weak.

My breathing slowed, my fear dissipated, my sanity returned. He was in my land and he didn't know how to survive on his own. He didn't even speak the language! The commander had gotten a very good look at him and knew he was an elf. Without me, Glorfindel would be hunted through this land without the hope of escaping. The commander had not really seen me and could say nothing other than the fact that I had been tall, female and wearing the veil of a Rikajir guild member. Glorfindel needed me, I was still in control.

"Are you alright," he asked, and I could hear the difference in his voice. The ringing tone of command and power had vanished, replaced instead by golden hair's ordinary light, teasing voice that now contained traces of worry.

"I'm fine," I snapped back, knowing I was being rude and not caring a smidgen. His power scared me and I did not react well to being afraid.

He reached out and touched my upper arm which I would have jerked away had I not been on a galloping horse, steering said horse and clutching bags with my other hand. Surprisingly, I felt the sting of a wound beneath his gently probing fingers and, looking, I saw my bicep covered in blood.

"I didn't even notice that," I murmured quietly. "My sword was too heavy for you," he explained. "Your guard dropped the slightest bit and his scimitar pierced your arm. Seconds later, he breathed no more as you sliced his throat."

I scowled mightily at that, "so you saw me get injured," I asked aggressively. "You were watching me fight," I demanded somewhat angrily. Why I was angry I did not know but I was, unmistakably, angry.

"Yes, I was," he replied calmly, as ever unaffected by my anger. "You fight well," he added and I felt a sudden, unexpected, surge of pleasure that a warrior such as he believed that I fought well. His praise was, I found, entirely welcome, particularly as I sensed that it was genuine. My pleasure and good temper evaporated at his next words.

"But, I would imagined you would fight even better with a balanced sword and a weight you are accustomed to," he added, gently scolding.

I glared at the desert before but was unable to protest though I longed to. Looking back, my decision to stand by my word and to not allow him his weapons- and therefore deprive myself of my own- was foolish, childish and selfish. But I was already so empty. What did I have left except my honour? I needed to keep my word. If a slice to the bicep was the price that I had to pay then I would pay it and gladly. For it was a far lesser price than that to be paid had I not.

"You should bind that," Glorfindel murmured, seeing that I would not answer his previous comment. "Unfortunately, I happen to be on a wildly galloping horse, holding several bags, so I cannot bind it at this very moment," was my answer.

"I can," he replied and, without hesitating, the incensing elf leaned forwards and took the bags from my hands and strapped them to Voronwë. Then, casually as ever, he tore a strip from his tunic then released my waist so he was gripping Voronwë with only his knees.

Then, as I kept urging and directing Voronwë, he bound my arm. My instincts rose once more to throw him off balance because I didn't want him touching me. I wanted him as far away from me as possible, preferably silent and unnoticeable. Not that I thought he could ever be unnoticeable but I could dream, couldn't I?

His hands were gentle but firm as he bound my arm and I could tell by his grip that I would not be allowed to pull away. Finally, he was finished and he released my arm and gripped again my waist. It was not much better!

How I wished that he were in front so it would be I gripping onto him- not him gripping me. No, never mind, I suddenly thought. I did not wish that for then he would be grasping the reins and directing Voronwë while I would be forced to go where he chose. He would, once again, be in control.

What I wished, I decided, was for him to be on a fully separate horse that was following my horse. I could not imagine ever comfortably sitting behind someone and going wherever they wanted without a fight. Particularly if that person happened to be a male. Especially if that male happened to be unknown or worried me in any way. Glorfindel was all of those things.

We rode in silence for a few minutes until I grew curious and, against my logic and instincts, began to speak. "You fought well," I heard myself say before tensing as I awaited his reaction. I could hear the smile in his voice as he replied with a simply, courteous, "thank you."

I waited a few seconds, wondering why I was hesitating, before saying, "you didn't kill them. Any of them." Though I barely knew him, he was still a stranger to me, I somehow knew that he raised an eyebrow, as if I had felt it.

"So you were observing my fighting as well were you?" He paused then but finally said, "No, I didn't kill any of them. One may die from his wounds but the others should all live."

"They are Haradrim," I pointed out. "They have been enemies of your people for Ages and they would have gladly killed you. They would have been proud of the fact that they brought down an elf," I stated.

"Aye, they would, and deservedly so. Elves make fearsome opponents and it would be a rare mortal who could match one," was his reply. I ground my teeth together in frustration; that was not the point!

"Why didn't you kill them," I snapped. Clearly, it would have been all too easy for him to have done so, far easier, in fact, than the choice he had made. They had given him ample reason to kill them and it was not as if they were his allies or the allies of his people. One must make certain allowances if the person facing you could turn into a potential ally. But nor could I believe that he was not capable of killing as some are.

There was a certain look in his eyes that I recognized and that told me he had killed countless times before. I saw the way he had been holding something back, keeping himself from delivering those final blows that would have simply occurred naturally had he let them. For Tulkas' sake, I had seen him start to perform the final strokes before pulling back. This elf was clearly not a stranger to killing. So why had he not?

He sighed then, a slow and somewhat weary sigh, and pressed his fingers harder into my hips. I ignored that just as I was ignoring the way that his sheathed weapon (my scimitar) was digging into my thigh. I wanted answers.

"I didn't kill them because I had no need to kill them," he said finally. "They were no true threat to me- even weakened as I was- so I saw no need to turn that battle into a needless slaughter. I do not enjoy killing, least of all men who are so weak compared to elves. Some of those men were little more than boys. Unless they threaten myself, or my mission, or those whom I love, I shall not kill them for to do so makes me no better than they. But should they do so I will not hesitate and they will not live."

The final sentence was spoken with cold, calm surety that somehow I could not doubt. I inclined my head in understanding. It was not my way but I could now understand why he did so.

After a thousand years, the souls of those you killed must weigh heavily upon you. Particularly if you were blessed with elven memory and were cursed to remember them for all the years of your long life. I was glad that I was but a mortal and would have only a mortal lifetime. An immortal one seemed doomed to sorrow, pain, loss and despair against the darkness that you could never fully vanquish. Yet, ever seeking knowledge, I still wished to understand more.

"Any of them would have gladly killed you, all of them are part of the Enemy's army and many of them deserved to die," I pointed out, partly to justify my own actions to myself and partly to see how he would answer.

Quietly, he said, "whether they deserve death or no, it is not my place to judge them. They may have chosen their fates but I will not deliver it to them unless I have no other choice and it is my fate, and the will of the One, that I do so. The judgement of the people lie in the hands of the Valar and the One. That burden does not lie in the hands of mortals- or immortals, in the case of the elves."

I should keep quiet but it was strangely pleasant to debate with him as we fled on the back of a galloping horse from a fortress where people wanted to capture or kill us.

"What of rulers, leaders and lords and princes and kings. Sheiks and headmen and priests and nobles," I argued. "Is it not their place to also judge?"

He looked surprised then nodded, "aye, it is, and that is why so much depends on such people and their upbringing. As a Lord and Captain, I have been called upon to pronounce judgements and on those occasions I have acted as I saw fit. However, on the battlefield when emotions are high, I shall not pick and choose who to kill as I judge whether one man is worthy of life and another not. I shall take life only if I am forced."

I knew then, by his answers, and his tone, and his words, that he was wise beyond Men, gifted with the wisdom of the Ages by long years spent toiling upon Middle-Earth and experiencing both sorrows and joys.

Interested, I asked, "While judging, how would you sentence someone? With justice, or mercy?"

This was a very important question as I knew that my friend would choose mercy while most of the uncorrupted Haradrim would choose justice. The corrupted ones would choose vengeance.

He did not hesitate but instead replied, "I would choose justice, tempered by mercy. I have found this to be the best way. Cold justice alone does not win the love of your people for it can cause fear, particularly of retribution. Then, they may be afraid to seek you out, even if they have information that could be important. Mercy alone does not lead to respect and some will inevitably be tempted to take advantage. Besides that, they, the common people, must view you as their ruler and not merely their friend for as ruler you pronounce judgements and hold their lives within your hands. But justice tempered by mercy allows for both love and respect. It allows the common people who might never meet you to love you, while also ensuring that in their hearts you remain their ruler."

I fell silent, retreating into my thoughts. I wondered where we were supposed to be going, when Fariza would catch up and how she would find us. What I did not wonder was whether she would find us. She was Rikajir, the thought of her not finding us was absurd.

"You took many lives today," golden hair said gently. "I know," I replied harshly and coldly, not liking to be reminded. "I shall not cry if that's what you are wondering," I added, thinking that it was possible, albeit unlikely, that he judged me for being a woman and thought that such would be my reaction.

"That was not what I was wondering," he said. What was he wondering then? Why did he have to mention it? Well, at least he didn't judge me… My thoughts were jumping all over.

"I have killed before", I found myself saying. "I have killed countless people before and have seen horrors." Wanting suddenly to express some of my pain and wanting to see whether this elf had truly seen such horrors I continued speaking.

"I have seen both men and women be burned alive for some perceived insult to our krigsherre. I have seen the rotting flesh of infected wounds because those wounds were improperly treated. I have watched as people died slowly from poison, every second filled with agony. I have assisted in amputations. I have seen the grisly results of crushed skulls and arrows to the eyes. I have seen children die of hunger while our krigsherre feasts every night. I have watched children be bound and whipped for crimes that would cause them merely reproach in other places. I am no shrinking maid, elf of Gondolin. This is far from the first time that I have killed."

I had seen all of that- that and more. The desert was fierce, harsh and unforgiving, similar to the people who inhabited it. By necessity, the Haradrim were a people akin to the desert. Here, the weak died and only the strong survived. Such was the way of the desert. But this had become far more common and deadly under our _gracious_ krigsherre and the dark influence of our _Lord of Gifts_. How I loathed him.

"I too have been witness to all that," the elf said, his gaze far away. For an instant, he was lost among memories, the horrors of countless years playing behind his eyes. Then he shook his head, sending his golden hair flying into his face and added solemnly, "but you should never have been."

Furiously, I buried my hands in Voronwë's mane, wanting to whip around and demand loudly why I should be less capable of dealing with such than him. I am not weak, I wanted to shout. Never had I been and never would I be weak, or in need of protection. Such was equal to either death or capture here, the capture by a man who would take from me my freedom. But before I could whirl or say any of it he continued.

"No one should have to see such things, be they Men, elves or dwarves. I say you in particular should not have witnessed such events not because you are a woman, but because you are so young."

All the fury drained out of me at those words, to be replaced by sudden weariness. "I am young in body, Glorfindel, but old in spirit. At least by the reckoning of Men."

"I begin to see that," he murmured. "But do not let theirs weigh heavily upon yours," he added. "Whose," I asked cautiously, knowing he referred to spirits.

"Those of the people you have slain," he said firmly, not denying the truth in that statement but neither condemning me for my actions. I scowled at the reminder; it was far too soon for me to think on the battle. Could he not just let it be? But something told me that this exasperating elf rarely let anything be.

Leaning forwards, his chest was suddenly pressed against my back even more firmly and his lips were just by my ear. "You were raised in a different environment and taught to show no mercy. They were threatening your life. You had no choice, Jakira."

I shivered suddenly, thousands of unfamiliar emotions rushing through me at once, so quickly that I could not begin to describe them before they were gone and replaced by others. I was not sure why I had shivered; it could have been a number of things.

It could have been because of the relief and absolution that flowed through me at his words. It could have been surprise that I needed such for it had been years since I had felt any real guilt or grief after a kill. Such was now merely my life. It could have been surprise that his words had worked for me because before it had taken far more than mere words to absolve me of my guilt.

It could have been from the way that I felt as he leaned so close to me, his lips brushing my ear and the scent of his sweet breath that warmed my skin. Goosebumps had broken out on my neck where his breath had touched. It could even have been because of the way my back had felt with his broad, muscled chest pressed so close to it.

Most of all, my shiver could have been caused by hearing my name on his lips. Jakira, my birth name, to be used only by family and the closest of friends. Glorfindel spoke Westron with a beautiful cadence and hearing him say my birth name was almost intimate. I wondered suddenly whether I had shivered from fear, excitement or a combination of both.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, here you have, finally, the next chapter. I am sorry for the delay in getting it out, it stretched on for a number of reasons. Th first is that I was suffering from a slight case of writer's block and I wasn't feeling as much motivation to push through. The second is I did not receive many reviews for the next chapter and was wondering whether people were still interested in this story. The final reason is that real life has been busy. I have decided to keep posting, I wrote this story first for my own enjoyment, and posting pushes me to become the best writer I can. I would really appreciate reviews to tell me how I can improve. Thank you <em>Writer of the<em> _North_ and _Guest_ for reviewing the last chapter. Your two reviews really made my day and encouraged me to go on writing this story. I am extremely grateful for you reviews. **

**_Guest_, I am so glad that you liked my portrayal of Glorfindel, I have worried a lot about that! I am also pleased to know that you liked Jakira, you will slowly be revealed more and more about her, son the reasons of her hatred for Sauron should become clear. The big meeting has been planned but will take place in the future, they have more to do before they can reach the krigsherre's palace where much will become clear. That shall not, however, be the end of the story. As I said when I wrote my first chapter, this story is very long. It is the longest story I have ever tried to write and, I think, my best to date. I was absolutely ecstatic to receive your review and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter, the next one will be out much sooner, particularly if I get some good feedback. Have a great day and thanks for reading, reviewing, favouriting or following this story!**

**Samuel La Flame**


	13. Chapter 12: To Challenge an Assassin

****Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R Tolkien!****

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

_Glorfindel spoke Westron with a beautiful cadence and hearing him say my birth name was almost intimate. I wondered suddenly whether I had shivered from fear, excitement or a combination of both..._

(**Jakira POV**) The moment was shattered when Glorfindel tensed, whipping around to look at the sands behind us. In the distance, there was a cloud of sand approaching quickly. I was unable to make out who it was but I knew that Glorfindel would be able to see that soon. Already, he told me he could see that it was only a single horse.

"We are halting," I announced, knowing that it was unlikely that we would be able to lose them even if they were an enemy. There were few places to hide and Voronwë was bearing a heavy load and had been pushed hard all day. Strong though he was, he would not be able to outrun a fresh horse. Glorfindel evidently agreed.

He dismounted stiffly, his eyes flashing to me the instant his feet hit the ground. "May I have my sword," he asked, already unbuckling my scimitar from his waist. "Why," I asked, wanting to know why he thought he would need it and to give myself more time to consider the request.

"Because if that turns out to be an enemy and we are forced to fight, I would rather face it with my own weapon between my fingers- not one that I laid hand upon for the first time earlier today."

I could not argue with his logic and I fully agreed with the sentiment as I too would prefer my own weapon should this come to a fight. I therefore hesitated for only a second before saying, "I said that once you gained my trust you could regain your weapons. You have now, partially, gained my trust so you may, perhaps temporarily, regain your weapons."

I swore I could see a glint of amusement in his eyes at my hesitant terms, they gleamed brighter for a moment before dimming again. I still waited until he had handed me my scimitar before I passed him his sword. I did not trust him enough to let him hold both and, judging by the slightly longer exhale, he noted this. I felt a trifle smug for drawing this reaction from him. It served him right for being able to so easily provoke and unsettle me.

About a minute later, Glorfindel sheathed his sword, though he kept his hand upon its hilt. "Our visitor is a single rider, dressed in black and wearing a veil seemingly identical to the one which you wore earlier. It is likely the woman you called Fariza."

I noted the way he said _likely_, at this point he would take nothing for granted. I found that I appreciated this. The one who was trusting was also unprepared and that individual usually died in the desert. The desert did not tolerate fools, unless they were rich and well-protected fools.

The instant that the rider was within easy mortal eyesight Glorfindel whipped out his sword and held it in a classical defensive stance. Once the rider was within easy earshot he said firmly, "halt". After a tense pause, the rider did so. I was nearly 100% sure that this was Fariza.

"Dismount," Glorfindel ordered curtly. She (I was assuming it was she) did not move and neither did her horse. "Now," he demanded and there was again that unmovable note of command to his voice, authority ringing clear through every syllable.

His voice and tone showed clearly that this was not a request and the idea of his command being disobeyed or ignored was inconceivable. Fariza, I was sure now that this was Fariza, dismounted.

"May I walk my horse towards you," she asked, sarcasm heavy and evident in her tone. But just the fact that she had obeyed and was asking showed that she considered Glorfindel a very serious threat. One that she would possibly lose to should this come to a fight.

"Aye," Glorfindel replied, a deadly calm note to his voice and equally deadly serious glint to his eyes which were cold and hard. The glint of amusement long gone and in its place was an authoritative light that firmly insisted you listen. Upon viewing it, you could easily forget that he was a stranger with no authority who did not know how to survive here on his own. "Slowly," he added. I swallowed, glad that his words were not directed towards me and his eyes were not fixed upon me.

She came towards us and Glorfindel followed her every move, his sword trained on her, the point never wavering from her heart. It was quite unlike me to simply sit, waiting, on the horse but I could think of nothing else to do. Glorfindel was clearly not going to accept me simply stating that she was, in fact, Fariza and our ally. He wanted, no needed, proof.

Once she was only a handful of meters from us he called out again, "halt". She did so at once, dropping hr horse's reins and following his sword with her eyes as it flickered through the air.

"Remove your veil", he said sharply, and she gasped in disbelief. One did not ask a woman to remove her veil. One certainly did not ask a Rikajir guild member to remove their veil. It was an insult and could mean a lot more- not that he knew it. I sensed that even if he did know it at the moment he wouldn't care.

At her hesitation and the defiant refusal written clearly in her eyes he stepped forwards until she was within sword reach. Fariza did not move an inch, refusing to give any ground or be cowed by him. She was a Rikajir guild member and they do not back away from a threat.

Glorfindel spoke again, "I must confirm your identity. Remove your veil or I will," he said sternly. His sword was suddenly at her temple, right by the corner of her veil. With a small twitch, he could slice it open and reveal her features. She stepped back, one step, two steps, now three.

In a quick movement, she had drawn a knife, balanced it, and sent it flying towards Glorfindel, sure to pierce him in the heart. There was no pity of mercy in her gaze, it was merely the calm, concentrated one of a killer who had been pushed too far. I opened my mouth, unsure what to say, feeling torn beyond belief. I had never before seen Fariza miss and she did not this time.

But the knife did not pierce him either! Quick as she was, and fast as her knives flew, he was an elf and he possessed speed she could only dream of. Before the knife had even left her hand, he had begun stepping to the side and when it came he flicked his wrist and deflected it with the flat of his sword.

Instead of gaping in shock and disbelief as I would have, Fariza quickly and carefully arranged her features into an expression of awe and respect and said, "keen are the eyes of the Eldar, fast are their reflexes and steady are their hands."

The words of praise left her lips immediately and flowed both easily and naturally, just as she had been taught. The Rikajir were trained in many things, among them praise and ways of placating a foe. But though she had done everything correctly, Glorfindel refused to be placated.

His voice was soft but deadly and it pierced the air as sharply and easily as Fariza's dagger would have pierced his heart had he not deflected it. "I shall endeavor to ignore your discourteous attempt at killing me. You have one final chance to remove your veil."

Incredible, he called attempted murder discourteous! I wondered how many people had tried to kill him in his lifetime. Something told me that there were many.

Fariza slowly raised her arms then brought her hands to her veil and removed it, revealing the friend that I knew. Satisfied, Glorfindel moved to lower and sheathe his sword when Fariza gasped. I turned to see what she was looking at only to find nothing there.

Confused, I turned back to Fariza only to see her supporting Glorfindel who, quite suddenly, looked very ill and was swaying on his feet, nearly unable to stand. What in Arda had happened?

"We must find shelter," Fariza said quickly in Haradaic. "Make for the next sand dune," she added. "You stubborn fool," she said in Westron, and I could only hope she was speaking of him and not of me.

She boosted him up and I wrapped my arm around his waist to ensure he did not fall from Voronwë. With a conscious but apparently damaged elf in front of me, we galloped to the next sand dune, I still not understanding what was wrong with him.

He shifted in my arms, sitting up straight and moving his hands again to grasp his weapon. Briefly looking down, I discovered the cause of our problem immediately.

"Ai, Valar," I swore lowly, unable to figure out why it was only now that I was seeing this. Because Glorfindel's entire side was crimson and sticky, the blood having completely soaked through his dark tunic which, I suppose, had been partially concealing his wound before.

He was unbalanced and weakened by blood loss, and I did not even know how he had been wounded. I now completely understood and agreed with Fariza's comment.

"If you want your elf to live, ride faster," Fariza said urgently, though why she cared when she had been perfectly ready to kill him mere moments ago don't ask me! I supposed it had to do with him threatening her, and her being one of the Rikajir, and the fact that she thought he was my elf. I had long since decided to not even try to understand the strange ways Fariza's mind worked.

"To live," rasped the fool in front of me. "I am fine, this is only a scratch. Little more than a paper cut."

Fariza snorted a laugh, amused in spite of herself and, without considering anything, I snapped, "hush," instinctively. Because, honestly, he was acting more like a young warrior with his first wound, trying to be foolishly brave and impress his leader than a wise elven warrior centuries old.

"Do elves have twice the amount of blood as men," Fariza asked in a tone that was so strange I could not tell whether it was serious or not. "Because if not I feel the need to say that just a glance tells me you have lost enough blood to knock out a full grown man."

"We do not have that much however it is far harder to kill an elf than it is a man. I will not succumb to my injuries or go into shock as my body has been forced to deal with far worse injuries under far harsher conditions. At the moment, I am finding the blood loss rather revitalizing."

I gaped at him and had he not been injured I would have gladly hit him. He found the effects of blood loss _revitalizing_? Had his wound damaged his brain? Even Fariza was clearly astonished by this announcement though she was able to control herself and summon only mild curiosity to her voice as she asked, "how so?"

"It forces my body to work, you see, and does an excellent job of waking me up as my body tries to replace the lost blood. I have been feeling a bit tired lately but now I am feeling far better, if you can ignore the unfortunate side-effects brought on by the blood loss."

If I could ignore...?! I was honestly struck dumb. What on earth could you say to a statement like that? But, though he was evidently trying to make light of this, I saw him wince and glimpsed his pale face. My fury evaporated and was replaced by concern. He was joking on purpose, trying to keep us from panicking. The infuriating elf was trying to shoulder the burden of his own wound. It was so unbelievable that had I not been here to witness it I would never have thought it possible.

"Hush," I said again, a bit more firmly this time. When Fariza said nothing, he fell silent, more proof of his poor condition. I did not doubt that he had suffered far more than this in the past and had survived it however in the past he had been in a familiar climate, likely surrounded by experienced healers or friends, and he had probably not been weakened to begin with.

At the moment, he was still weakened by thirst, sun-sickness and lack of adequate rest as well as recovering from previous wounds and attempting to adjust to a very different and harsh environment, without such experienced healers and without friends whom he could rely upon. The blood loss on top of all this could not be good, not to mention the over-exertion from which he was surely suffering.

When we reached the sand dune, Fariza sprang easily from her horse, throwing down her bedroll and then helping me ease Glorfindel onto it. Sweat was making its way down his face and I was pretty sure that his eyes should not be quite so hard, as if he had erected a barrier behind them to block out the pain. He still managed to smile at me though, teasing me as if this was our daily routine and his blood was not at this very moment soaking into the sands.

Fariza began taking out her saddlebags and starting a fire. I knew from that action that it would be my responsibility to see to his wound. I also knew that I had to remove his tunic to examine him but for some reason I hesitated before finally cutting it away to save time and spare him some pain. He would have needed to rid himself of such clearly foreign clothes unsuitable for the desert in any event.

Upon looking at his side, it became abundantly clear what the problem was and how the wound had originated.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, here's a slight cliffhanger to keep you interested and excited for the next chapter. I hope that you enjoyed this one! I would like to thank <em>Toraach<em>, _Writer of the North_, _The Butterfly_, and _Guest_ for their reviews, reviews that are, as always, appreciated. Seriously, your reviews motivate me like nothing else and they are tremendous encouragement so thank you so much!**

**The Butterfly, I am glad that you find this story interesting and thank you very much for your review! **

**Guest, I will certainly keep updating and your reviews really help keep me motivated to do so! Thank you so much for your amazing review and I'm glad that you enjoyed the moral debate, I was hoping that it would help show a bit more of each of their characters without revealing a great deal of past or plot! I'm glad that you like the descriptions of Jakira, I am trying to flesh her out so that you can all come to know her as I do and she won't feel too much like an OC. She is definitely feeling the morals of working with a natural enemy of her people- yet one who has a common enemy with her. Her stance will be explained in further detail soon, right now they are just slightly busy with the business of fleeing for their lives! I will definitely update, and it was great to hear from you again, thanks so much for your review!**

**This chapter, please review and tell me what you think of Fariza, the Rikajir and Glorfindel's actions and reactions (really, his characterization), as well as anything else you would like to comment on! Please tell me what you liked, disliked and how I can improve! The more reviews I get, the sooner I update and they truly do help! Thank you to all those who are reading, reviewing, following and favouriting this story! Thanks so much, hope you enjoyed,**

**Samuel La Flame**


	14. Chapter 13: Enduring Pain

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien! **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

_Upon looking at his side, it became abundantly clear what the problem was and how the wound had originated..._

(**Jakira POV**) "His stitches have ripped open," I called to Fariza. Nearly all of them, I thought in disbelief as I stared at his side which was split open as before, weeping blood and crossed with jagged lengths of silk, all torn. My stitching job was clearly ruined. It looked distressingly painful but he had yet to let out a whimper.

"Original wound," she fired back at me, seeing no need to ask useless questions such as _what stitches_ or _how_. That was one of the many things that I liked about Fariza.

"Warg claws, shoulder to hip, deep, relatively recent," I rattled off the important information as the Rikajir are taught.

"Did you use any herbs to prevent it from becoming infected and to cleanse any filth that would be on those claws," she asked. "I cleaned it but I have no herbs or salve and precious little water," I replied.

Fariza tossed me the medicine bag and a water skin, signalling that it would be my duty to treat him and keep him alive. Fariza knew the training that was given to all Rikajir members but I had learned under my friend and thus knew more.

I was no healer for I carried no love for the art within my heart. But my hands brought peace and my friend had told me once that was a rare gift I could choose to do with what I willed. I rarely used it for it drained me and I always preferred fighting. Healing was for women and weak hearted men, my father had always said. I wanted nothing to do with anything weak. But now, I needed to heal.

I ripped up the remainder of Glorfindel's tunic to use for bandages before wetting it and pressing it firmly to his side. I reached for the medicine bag, rifled around until I had found the jar I was looking for, and then smeared some ointment onto the bandages as well. The ointment was made from a foreign plant that would, hopefully, help lessen the blood flow. It was expensive but this was a Rikajir medicine pouch and they could easily pay for thousands of expensive medicines (though, this being Fariza's, I suspected that it had been stolen, not bought. She enjoyed practising such skills for the thrill of it).

As I let his side soak and the blood slow, I mixed the salve that would hopefully cleanse the wound and prevent it from becoming infected because of the filth on the wargs' claws. I could already see that it was beginning to grow red around the edges which was the first sign of infection and a bad sign when alone in the desert and having precious little to prevent it. Thank the Valar I had the Rikajir pouch.

After Fariza had passed the knife through the fire to clean it, I picked out the last of what remained of the stitches, ignoring his shallow breaths. His face was tight and sweat rolled down it, glistening in the firelight. Though no cry of pain had made its way past his lips I could tell it was taking him almost inhuman effort to keep this so.

Taking from the bag a thin needle, I threaded it with silk and, carefully, began stitching. I concentrated hard on the wound and on easing his pain while silently vowing not to let him become injured again and trying not to focus on what exactly his side currently resembled and how I was sewing it, pulling the needle and length of silk through his skin.

These last few days had given me an excellent reminder on why I was not a healer and how much I disliked being forced to be one. If he managed to injure himself again, I was going to refuse to heal him, I thought, though I did not really mean it.

At the first bite of the needle applied to reddened, sensitive skin, Glorfindel had breathed in deeply and now he let it out, the air trickling through his lips. He let pass not a whimper, nor a moan, nor a single gasp of pain. This was an elf at his most resolute and he was clearly not going to show any weakness. Instead, in a remarkable display of mental fortitude, he forced his features to relax and even managed to smile.

"What are we having for supper," he asked Fariza calmly, as if I _wasn't_ stitching up his side, and he _hadn't_ lost a dangerous amount of blood and he _wouldn't_ be unconscious if he didn't have an incredibly high pain tolerance and equally strong will.

He smiled as I worked; not wincing and only the way his muscles were trembling gave away the fact that he was feeling any pain. Had you glanced merely at his features, you would have thought he was perfectly relaxed, holding a normal conversation. But I was still stitching.

"We will be killing than eating the fool of an elf who insists on being stubborn and not acknowledging the pain in his clearly burning and extremely painful side," said Fariza as scathingly as she currently could- but I could see the admiration she held for his pain threshold.

"How unfortunate for said elf," he replied, now even managing to summon amusement to his eyes. "But, if it does not overtly inconvenience you, I must beg for another supper. I do not wish to become a cannibal".

Were he not injured, I would hit him. For some reason, his flippancy and refusal to admit to the severity of his injury was infuriating me, particularly because I had been so-. Wait, I had been so what? Not worried, certainly. I couldn't have been worried about the health of a possible threat to my country, could I? But I had given him his sword back which showed I trusted him… But why had I done that when he was still possibly a threat to Harad?

The needle jabbed into him and I decided to think about these confusing thoughts later, when I wasn't stitching up his side. For now, I needed to concentrate on healing him so that I didn't have to dispose of a dead elf. That wouldn't help anyone, or anything.

A few moments later (as I was tying the 27th stitch) he said seriously and somewhat darkly, "I have experienced worse at the hands of my enemies".

Respect burned in Fariza's gaze but she said only, "that does not diminish the current pain".

"No, it certainly does not," he agreed. But his tone was almost cheerful and his expression showed no pain, there was still a smile playing on his lips for goodness sake! I held back a growl as I pushed the needle through his skin again.

"What other pain have you experienced," Fariza inquired casually. I understood the logic in distracting him from what was currently occurring but how on earth she could think that discussing past pain was a good change of subject escaped me. She could be rather tactless at times.

Glorfindel's quiet voice cut through the silence, his tone blank as if he was reciting a memorized list and not past experiences that must have touched him, changed him.

"I have nearly frozen to death on shifting ice where the bite of the air was akin to the stabbing of knives. I have been scorched by fell fire that does not belong on this earth and have tumbled far from atop great heights. I have felt darkness so deep and bleak that it causes physical pain. I have been tortured and whipped by enemies as they tried without success to break me. I have shattered or broken many bones, as has any warrior, and I have been pierced by arrows and sliced by swords, poisoned by foes and crushed by stones. Trust me, young one, when I say I am no stranger to pain".

I desperately wanted to protest the young one which I suspected was for me as much as Fariza but something in his voice convinced me not to. I was abruptly glad I hadn't seen his eyes as he spoke for I knew with sudden certainty that they would have been haunted by the memories of the pain which he described- and that was merely some of the physical pain he had suffered. I did not want to know what mental anguish he had been forced to endure over the long years he had spent on this earth.

Fariza looked like she wanted to question him about what he had said. She looked utterly fascinated by what she had heard but I did not want to hear any more so I said pointedly, "we will need supper". She stood and reluctantly went out to catch something.

* * *

><p><strong>Here's the next chapter, hope you all enjoyed. I was absolutely blown away by the responses to my story that I have received in the last few days. The reviews that came tumbling in were absolutely amazing and they brought a huge smile to my face, cheering me up on a day that, before then, had been going terribly. I am so, so grateful for al the reviews I have received which is why I worked as fast as I could to get this newest chapter out quickly. Thank you all so much much for your praise, encouragement, suggestions and ideas for improvement. <em>Toraach<em> and _blackunicorne_, thank you so much for your numerous reviews! Hearing from you again, _blackunicorne_, was great and _Toraach_, your advice, suggestions and commentary were invaluable. Thank you all so much for this, I truly cannot express how grateful I am! I hope you all enjoyed this. Please review this chapter if you get a chance. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed or favourited, your support is outstanding. Have a wonderful day,**

**Sam**


	15. Chapter 14: Fear and Courage

**Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

(**Jakira POV**) "You are really the limit, elf," I told him as I tied the 34th stitch, just after Fariza had left. "How so," he asked, sounded amused.

"Had you been weaker and possessed a lesser will, you would have fainted back there when you insisted upon quizzing Fariza- which was entirely unnecessary," I told him.

"I would not have fainted and it was entirely necessary," he protested, sounding once again like a ridiculous young warrior trying desperately to prove himself. His reasoning on why he had to aggravate his injury by questioning and challenging Fariza was eluding me.

"Really? Explain that to me and allow me to judge whether it was truly that necessary," I said tartly, momentarily forgetting that he was a strange elf and potential threat to my country as well as a dangerous male that I likely couldn't outfight.

That last fact scared me, though I was loath to admit it. At 21, I could already defeat most warriors and those I couldn't were usually either well known to me or members of the Rikajir. Here, with so few warriors surviving to adulthood and given the chance to improve their skills, any skilled warrior could quickly become known unless they went to great lengths to remain secret.

The army of the Dark Lord trained hard but they focussed more on discipline and among them you would not become truly advanced. There was a limit to how much they taught and their drills were mostly repetitive, mastering the basics that would enable them to kill without mercy and hopefully survive their first battle. But, if they did not, it was no great crisis for our magnificent Lord of Gifts had hundreds of other Haradrim children he could take, train, and let die. The though set my blood boiling.

Among the tribes, you learned what you could and your mastery depended on your teachers, your skill, your money, and how long you survived. Once more, few had the chance of mastering more than basics.

Unlike them, I had begun training soon after I learned to walk and shortly after that my life had come to depend on what I learned. I had first fought to kill at twelve and had been lucky enough and skilled enough to survive it. Because of this, and my natural gift for fighting, I was I very talented warrior. To know with certainty that an unknown male could defeat me made me feel uncomfortable, vulnerable.

"I needed to earn Fariza's respect," he said clearly. "By fighting her injured as I was and then saying nothing as you treated me, I showed her that I was not weak". I could say absolutely nothing to that statement as it was completely true.

"You have nothing to prove, you know," I said as I finished tying the final stitch, not wanting him to try and do something ridiculous again in an attempt to prove himself.

He laughed, humourlessly this time. It did not suit him. "Jakira, I am in a foreign, hostile country where I am currently fully dependent upon you and your generosity. Thus far, I have been more of a burden than anything else. I have everything to prove," he finished.

At that, I said nothing, realizing he was right. After a few moments, I said, "Just worry about healing for now". It was awkward trying to reassure him but I felt it necessary. It became apparent just how necessary when he spoke again.

"I will be ready to ride on in the morning," he told me quietly.

Instantly, I was ready to protest because there was no way that I would permit anyone to ride or fight with me in his condition unless we were fleeing for our lives and had no other choice. Then, I realized that that was precisely our situation.

Evidently believing that he still had to convince me, he struggled into a sitting position and nailed me with a look that I now recognized as one where he would seemingly not be swayed. It was a look of such perfect authority and strange power that I could not seem to summon the strength to argue with him. I was pinned by his gaze, those ancient, commanding eyes holding me in place, a light burning deep within them.

"Tomorrow I ride," he said quietly but assuredly. There was no doubt or hesitation in that voice. I inclined my head but said nothing in return.

There was a quiet hissing and nearly silent footsteps that heralded Fariza's return a few minutes later. She was accompanied by both two dead hares, presumably our supper, and a snake. A highly poisonous snake.

"What are you doing with that," I asked, gesturing to the snake she was currently handling with the ease of long practice.

"Harvesting its venom," she replied cheerfully, looking happy to have found the snake. I stared at her, flabbergasted by her casual reply.

"We are possibly being hunted by half- or more than half- of an army camp who have surely had the sense to dispatch messengers regarding us to someone higher up and it is now that you choose to harvest venom? Could you not find a better time?"

All that added to the fact that I, for one, did not feel comfortable with her extracting the venom of a poisonous snake as I stood scant meters away and she had little to none of the equipment the Rikajir usually used for such a thing. Nor was she one of their specialists who harvested venom daily. Being poisoned did not appeal to me.

Judging by the expression on Glorfindel's face, it seemed like he didn't feel like being bitten either; and dying by poison was _not_ how he would like to spend the remainder of his day. Fariza's expression though, other than slight confusion, was still perfectly happy, poisonous snake and all. I could actually (unfortunately) believe that she was made even happier by the presence of the snake.

It reflected badly on me that one of my few, and consequentially greatest, friends was an assassin who found harvesting venom fun, the same way that some enjoyed dancing, or singing, or riding.

"It is now that I have time to replenish my supplies and I had the luck to find this lovely snake," Fariza said, looking at the snake adoringly. Considering this snake was reasonably rare, I could see why she might think that way though I was in complete disagreement. Anyone sane who knew how poisonous this snake was would agree that finding it was _unlucky_. But Fariza was not sane.

"As for being chased," she added, "I took care of that already," she said casually, still holding the wretched snake with one hand and preparing a conveniently empty vial with the other.

Looking up, she laughed softly at the expression on my face. Schooling it quickly, I told myself firmly that I would not ask her how in Arda she had managed that and I certainly would not beg for details. Luckily, this resolution was not tested as Glorfindel asked for me.

"Excuse me," he said politely. "No, don't bother turning away from that lovely snake in your hands," he added hastily. "I would not want to distract you from your work!"

Lips twitching, Fariza turned back to the snake who had now bitten down hard on the thin material stretched over the vial and secured tightly. Slowly and carefully, she massaged the venom glands. Venom dripped down into the vial, pooling and slowly gathering. I tried to forget exactly how potent said venom was.

Seeing she was safely focusing, Glorfindel continued, "how exactly did a beautiful lady like you manage to convince an entire angry and embarrassed army camp to cease searching for two outlaws who they would dearly love to kill?"

Fariza grinned, easily accepting his teasing compliments. Like most women of the Rikajir, she had a far better experience with men than I did.

"It helps if you are a Rikajir assassin," she said, chuckling as the snake tried to escape. I had a knife drawn within seconds, a short knife, suitable for fighting the lightning speed of snakes. But I need not have worried because by the time my blade was drawn Fariza had full control once more. Fariza was, true to her insane nature, smiling with delight at the snake.

Continuing to answer Glorfindel's question, she added, "a single Rikajir member is more powerful than a full army camp. I expressed how furious I was that someone would dare impersonate a member of the Rikajir, let alone myself. I stated that they did not want to be anywhere near me when I caught up to you.

"When they questioned if I would be able to apprehend you on my own, I asked them if they would enjoy testing me themselves. I also mentioned that I was summoning other members of the Rikajir as this was now a matter of grave importance. They were not to follow and I would send them a message once I was finished with you. They were also not to send other messages for fear that you would kill the messenger and take the messages yourself, altering them as you desired".

"You said only that and they listened," Glorfindel said in shock, still slightly disbelieving.

Turning fully to face him yet keeping a steady hand on the snake (I still thought that she shouldn't turn away from that!), there was steel in her tone and ice in her eyes as Fariza replied, "All in Harad fear the Rikajir and with good reason. We are the greatest assassins in Arda and we are officially allied with neither Sauron, nor the Free Peoples. Together, the guild is more powerful than the krigsherre for he fears us. We fear nothing".

It was a bold statement but true, I knew. Glorfindel raised an eyebrow, "Nothing," he asked with a hint of doubt in his tone.

"Neither man nor beast, nor hunger, nor thirst. Not pain, not fire, not chill. I do not fear death," said Fariza proudly, reciting part of the oath that the Rikajir took before becoming guildmasters.

"What about Morgoth, the Great Enemy who was bound," Glorfindel asked. Fariza shrugged, "he was bound so therefore cannot affect me but even if he could I would not fear him. I could never defeat him, of course, but I fear neither death nor pain. The Rikajir have no fear, elf. We are the bringers of it".

"I envy you then," he replied. "There are many things that I fear," he admitted. For a second, his eyes darkened, reflecting some haunting fear. Then they cleared and became so fearless and full of joy that I thought I must have imagined the previous expression.

"Do you fear death then," Fariza asked tactlessly. Glorfindel laughed humourlessly in reply. "Not my own," he said quietly. "I lost that fear years ago. I fear rather the death and suffering of those I love". Instead of being weakened by the confession, he seemed somewhat stronger for it. Somehow, those words conveyed that he was strong enough to know that he could admit to being weak. It was strange. Even Fariza looked thoughtful at that, moved to silence by something in his face or voice.

Still holding securely onto the snake and massaging the glands, she shifted her position and looked up towards him, something about him moving her to respect, an emotion I knew she rarely felt.

"Elf, do you think that one can show courage even when afraid," she asked. Glorfindel's face softened as he replied, "I have been taught that such is the only time one can be courageous. For knowledge often leads to fear but ignorance does not represent courage. I believe that courage is shown when you act despite fear and are thus able to overcome it".

Fariza nodded slowly, removing the snake from the half full vial almost absentmindedly. Apparently it was out of venom. As the snake lunged for her hand, she pulled it out of reach, slapping the snake sharply on the top of its head in rebuke. It raised its head, unfurling a hood, and hissed dangerously, its beady eyes watching her. She sighed, losing the thoughtful expression.

"I must take it away before it kills us", she said regretfully. I felt the urge to hit her for how calmly she mentioned our deaths, as if they would be minor inconveniences. While apparently neither she nor Glorfindel feared death I certainly did. I was not terrified of it as some were but I would not welcome it either. Fariza possessed no such worry.

Perhaps it was part of being an assassin and being therefore so intimately knowledgeable about it and familiar with it, or perhaps it was just Fariza herself, but she had been telling Glorfindel the complete and utter truth when she told him she did not fear it. Instead, she surrounded herself in it like a dark cloak when she fought and her hands were experts at bringing it.

I knew too, with the strange certainty I sometimes possessed, that when her time came she would not fight it but rather accept it and greet it like an old friend. She would accept that her time on this earth had ended and depart without fear for she _knew_ death. I thought that I would do no such thing. The uncertainty of death, and the finality of it frightened me- not that I would ever admit it.

Fariza gripped the snake and quickly gathered it up in a hold where it could not bite. Then, moving silently but quickly, she left to release it again, hopefully far from us.

"Thank you for trusting me, Jakira," said Glorfindel quietly, the ever-present smile dancing on his lips. I looked at him in mild confusion and he made a slight gesture towards the sword lying beside him, the sign of my trust.

I hesitated for a second before replying, "You have earned it". A silence fell between us, neither tense nor relaxed. I broke it after a few seconds by saying, "you have impressed Fariza. She listens to you and seems to respect you.

He shifted, his face smooth and fathomless, before saying, "I take it that is rare?" I jerked my head in affirmation, "Fariza respects few and pays little attention to those she doesn't. Only her masters among the guild does she usually listen to".

"She seems to respect you," Glorfindel pointed out. "We are friends," I replied, "or, at least, I am the closest thing she has to a friend. Her path is a lonely one".

Golden hair could have pointed out that my path seemed very lonely too but he didn't. I was grateful that he didn't. Instead, he replied somewhat sadly, "she is a child but she is full of darkness. She is full of joys unlived, and loved unfelt and beauty unbloomed but her innocence, the true sign of a child, is gone".

"We are not children, Glorfindel," I said somewhat defensively, warning tinging my tone. "You men- and by that I mean the race of Men- are often seen as children in my eyes," he said quietly. "You, Jakira, are so young," he exclaimed as if 21 years was nothing. He saw that his statement was beginning to anger me so he added quietly and sadly, "but you are correct. Childhood sits ill upon your features and in your eyes I see the truth. You are not children and have not been for a while".

I was about to scathingly ask him exactly how old he was if all men seemed as children to him but before I could Fariza returned and sat again, looking carefully at Glorfindel. We could both tell that she was thinking deeply but not yet ready to ask what she was wondering.

After a few more moments of tense silence, she finally spoke, "what do you think fearless is," she asked. "You said that to be courageous you needed to feel fear but how can you be fearless?"

Golden hair looked at her piercingly, only the smallest glimmer of amusement present in his eyes, buried deeply under gravity. "Why do you ask that," he returned curiously.

I knew that usually Fariza would snap at the person and refuse to answer. She was like me in this way, she usually did not like having to explain herself nor did she enjoy sharing her thoughts. But this time she was desperate enough that she did.

"To be a Rikajir guild member you must be fearless," she said. "We are taught that it is not enough to be courageous. Courageous people can fail or break under torture. Fearless ones succeed or die. The Guild does not tolerate weaknesses or failures and it cannot afford to be betrayed. I am a Rikajir guild member so I must be fearless. Your wisdom has changed my definition of courage so I ask that you share with me your definition of fearlessness".

Glorfindel smiled gently at her but, try as I might, I could find no condescension in his expression. "To be fearless is not to have no fear but rather to never let it overcome you. It is to be terrified and banish that terror, it is to be frozen and find the strength to move. It is to allow no fear to dictate your life or actions".

Fariza smiled, more of a curve of her lips than a true one, but a victory nonetheless. "Thank you," she said. "I can do that. I will do that," she said determinedly before passing out the food. Hungry and tired, we ate in silence.

* * *

><p><strong>Here is the next chapter, which I hope you have all enjoyed. This was intended to show you a bit <strong>**more of Fariza and start establishing who she is and what she is like. Hopefully, it succeeded. As always, I would really appreciate hearing your thoughts on what was good, bad, ect. What you thought of Glorfindel, Jakira and Fariza, as wel as anything else you would like to say. I would also like to thank _blackunicorne_,_Toraah_ ****and _Guest_ for their reviews which were, as always, appreciated. Your support continues to motivate and to encourage me, so I thank all of you very much!**

**Guest, I am glad that you have enjoyed the last two chapters and you will soon see whether or not Jakira behaves herself! The Blue Wizards hace been at court, trying to sway the krigsherre in his judgements and limit the power of Sauron without being killed themselves. A very difficult job here in Harad which is why they called for help. But they are doing their best until Glorfindel can reach them! I'm glad that the injuries seemed realistic and I agree that Glorfindel is very powerful. I believe that, with their rings, Galadriel and Elrond are more powerful- but without them Glorfindel is. Also, I firmly believe that Glorfindel is one of the best (if not the best) warrior remaining in Middle-Earth. I'm glad that you enjoyed my writing and hope that you also enjoy this update! Thanks for your encouragement!**

**Thank you to everyone who had read/reviewed/followed and/or favourited. All of your support is much appreciated. I hope that you all continue to enjoy this story,**

**Sam **


End file.
